


The Hero You Deserve

by castielslovesong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, California, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Lawyer!Sammy, M/M, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Much plot, Musician!Dean, Not so much the family business, Protect, Super!Cas, Super!Dean, Superheroes, Supers, WIP, all in one, alter ego, hunting things, injuries, lawyer!Sam, much angst, normal - Freeform, saving people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielslovesong/pseuds/castielslovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>California is a state of many perils. LA is a city that houses most of them.</p><p>Lucifer has been locked away for many years now and, thanks to Crowley, the villains run amok in the city. You have two sides, all are Supers but not all a good.</p><p>Hunter, aka Dean Winchester aka Led Wayne, is just one guy trying to make a difference in a city rife with corruption, danger and violence.</p><p>When the threats get seemingly too big to handle, he must team up with a guy who surely hates him, but it's up to an unlikely team of --friends-- to save the city.</p><p>Can they do it? Or will the strain of the world on their shoulders be too much...<br/>Oh and Hunter's totally a fangirl at being able to work with Angel. </p><p> </p><p>"Not so big man crush huh Dean?"<br/>"Shut up bitch."<br/>"Jerk."<br/>"Assbutt."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Am Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> So a Superhero AU
> 
> Get ready for another wacky update schedule and writing// it's unbated, apologies.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I'm always open for suggestions on plot.
> 
> PLEASE FEEDBACK YOU LOVELY PEOPLE :D
> 
> So without further ado, onto the story of Hunter and Angel, yah?

Cruising with the windows down, the soft hums of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ filtered through the warm street air. Sharply, his ear piece buzzed.

“Yeah Charlie?”

“Hey Deano, so we got a hostage situation downtown. 3 guys, small shop blah blah. Get there quick.”

He chuckled, “You got it Char.”

Ever since he had moved here, he had been tackling crime in and around the area. He had come a long way since he was a kid, just picking fights without direction.

Pulling across the street Charlie had inputted into his phone, he stepped out of the Impala. His suit was based on the guy from Assassins Creed, or at least that’s what he’s been told he looks like. The bandana he wears shields his lower face, ensuring the effectiveness of the black hood that cloaks his body. He doesn’t use weapons, not specifically, he was taught to fight with both guns, knives and household objects alike however.

The jewellery shop's sign was turned to closed. Shadows danced and shifted in the hazy yellow light; Dean would recognise the outline of a 55. Magnum anywhere. Looking up to the inky black sky, he rolled his shoulders and bust through the door. The metallic smell of a muzzle flash lingered after the first shot.

Generally, his objective starts with disarm and ends with heal (if necessary). Hitting the guy with the gun first, he hooked his wrist, kneeing him in the gut and slammed his forearm into the elbow joint, earning a sickening crack and cry of pain. He heaved the man who jumped onto his back and ripped him forward over his head. The guy smashed into one of the cabinets.

Turning and connecting his fist with the cheek of the third attacker, he quickly jumped back as the masked assailant slashed forward with a formidable blade. He managed to dodge, once, twice, but on the third Dean was forced to scramble on top of a display case; in his haste, he landed close to the blade, slicing shallow across his abdomen.

He straightened up. The attacker was shifting on his feet, eyes flicking to his two unconscious mates. They both turned at the flutter of wings, unfortunately for the robber straight into the fist of Angel.

_Shut up, yes I know who he is alright._

Pain was beginning to register in Dean so he forced his feet forward towards the shop owner who was slumped behind the till. He bent down, smiling reassuringly (a pointless action given his lower face is covered) at the panicked eyes that were drooping and scrambling hands, clinging to his small frame where blood was soaking through his shirt. His hand extended towards Dean. A private smile on his face, Dean removed the other hand from the wound and replaced it with his own.

Eyes closed, Dean inhaled a deep breath, grimacing at the twinge of pain from his own torso. Heat pooled around his hands and he could see the light through his closed lids. After a few seconds, he felt a stab in his own stomach but it soon conceded. The pain faded away and the short, pained breaths of the old man became easy and calm.

“Thank you, Hunter.”

Offering his hand, Dean pulled the man up along with himself to his feet.

“Any time, you probably should call the police for those three.”

The man wasn’t paying any attention. He was transfixed with the wet blood stain still on his shirt, and the perfectly unmarred skin beneath.

“I have already informed the authorities.” A gravelly voice behind him answered instead. Dean turned to find Angel much closer than two guys should be. Not for the first time, he was caught in the electric blue gaze of the other Super, illuminated by the black masquerade style mask covering his features. His cape swayed slightly as the man moved his shoulders. _Edna would kill you so bad -  Ellen, not Edna._ He took it upon himself to step back.

“Right. Thanks.”

With that he stepped past Angel, whose eyes followed him as he went. If he didn’t get home and stitch his abdomen, Angel’s personal space issues would be the least of his problems. Namely: exsanguination.  

The warm leather of baby welcomed him and he tried not to think to hard about the blood he could feel dripping across his abs. He radioed in to Charlie that he’d had his lot for the night, ‘3 saves hella yeah Hunter’, and headed back to his block of flats.

 

When he’s not out saving the world, _heh I am Batman_ , Dean makes his money by hooking up with some old band mates. In fact, the most expensive part of his flat is the sound room at the back. In its day, long, long ago, the flat may have been described as reasonable... Back when Shakespeare was in his prime time.

Painstakingly making his way up 3 flights of tagged and graphitized stairs to his very own Hobbit hole, he clutched his still protesting side and felt the warm trickle from the wound above his eye slide down his face.

Upon half walking-half falling through his front door, which has an irritating creak at the last push of the hinge, he shuffled into the main room. The bed is nothing more than an old mattress he found discarded in the better sides of town (he checked it for mites don’t worry); he did not complain as he threw himself on top of the unmade mess of sheets.

His ear piece buzzed frantically. Rolling his eyes, he pressed the button, wincing at the fresh sweep of pain that shocked through him.

“Dean! You ready for this morning?” Ash’s voice was far too loud for the pounding in his ears, but if he didn’t record the song tonight he wouldn’t make this month’s rent and _that_ would seriously suck more than downing a few pills.

“Sure thing Ash, see you guys at 6?”

“See you then, buddy.”

The line went dead. Glancing at his watch, a limited edition Iron Man face that Sammy had brought him for one of the few Christmases they ever celebrated, he forced his body into the sitting position. 3:34. That gave him 2 and a half hours to fix himself and his flat. Scowling at the mass of dirty plates taunting him from the sink, he stretched under his bed to reach the secondary first aid kit; strenuously pulling his tattered half of his suit over his head, he sighed as the chill of the air met his bare chest.

He has been patching himself up since he and Sammy were kids. Well, Sammy he could fix, but he learnt the hard way how to cast a brake, reduce swelling, stitch a cut on himself. The shallow slit across his abdomen screamed as he pressed the sharp tip of the needle through his flesh, blood still oozing miserably out. Once finished, he wrapped a bandage to help support his fractured ribs and newly stitched wound.

Next he pulled the shard of mirror from the bag. Angling it at his face, his cheek twitched with the blood that had dried there. A hollow look in his eyes made him internally wince because Angel had been at the scene, again, and he had saved his ass, again. There was something about the intense blue gaze that intrigued Dean about this Super. That is to say, he has never been interested in getting to know another Super – given his rather rocky history – until now. And that worried him.

Deeply.

By the time he had peeled off his sweat clad bottoms and changed into some baggy trackies and worn top, it was pushing 5:30. The dishes and years of dust cried out to him but he ignored it in favour of heading to the sound room.

Inside wasn’t particularly any more special than the rest of Dean’s lodgings. A small desk with his laptop and space for Ash’s Mac, aptly nicknamed Dr Badass, was pushed into the corner beneath the dejectedly falling wallpaper and filth stained window. The mics were set up beside that, with an amp, guitar and beanbags. Sitting down, notepad in hand, Dean began jotting lyrics he’d been working on since meeting Angel. The song hadn’t had much of a feel to it, but having been trapped in the bluest eyes of his life, he finally knew where his mind wanted him to go.

Mostly, the essence of songs comes and goes. Dean’s life is consumed by his alter ego, which he fulfills almost every night (depending of Charlie’s intel). However, there are ghosts in his closet he is chasing too.

Meaning, he is left with random phrases with no place in any of his songs as of yet:

_But you are an artist and your mind don’t work the way you want it to._

_I'm standing up, I'ma face my demons_  
 _I'm manning up, I'ma hold my ground_  
 _I've had enough, now I'm so fed up_  
 _Time to put my life back together right now_

_She’s dancing with strangers,  
           She’s falling apart_

Ripped from his thoughts by a knock on his door, he heaved himself from the squidgy cushion – they had been Jo’s idea, he swears.

“Hey Ash, Jo.”

“Deano!”

  
Exchanging a hug with his two guests, he pointedly ignored the frown on Jo’s face as she scrutinized his flat and his face, choosing instead to make a beeline to the room.

“I still don’t get why you use a pseudonym, I mean Led Wayne? Weird dude.” She sighed, sitting on the seat with the first mic.

“Led Zeppelin is a legend and I like Batman.” He shrugged back, flipping through his notepad to the song he’d finished.

“He can’t use his real name, Jo, too much attention.” Ash put in as he plugged in his laptop and got the software on the screen.

“Exactly, that’s why he’s the genius and you’re the annoying little sister. You still got the beats we put together?”

Dean would have laughed at the look on Ash’s face, almost a Sammy bitch face, coupled with his completely ridiculous hair, but he was tired and wanted to get this done for another month or so. Handing Jo the copy of the final sheet music, he lifted the strap of the guitar over his head and joined her behind the mics.

“We’ll go through acapella then with the beat then get it recorded?”

Appreciating the nods rather than the usual messing about and arguments, he started to strum. His voice was scratchy from shouting in the alley but apparently that made him sound more ‘realistic’. Honestly, he didn’t care. As long as playing it on Ash’s radio show brought in enough money to fill his fridge with more than that piece of cheese that he’s afraid is going all Darwinism on him... He’s good.

It takes them longer than anticipated. He loses count after the second play through of the instrumental, tweaking the way the drum beat sounds; finally, in the early hours of the evening, they record the final version.

“Here I sit in the corner,  
Singing myself to sleep  
Wrapped in all of the promises  
That I never seem to keep  
I no longer cry to myself  
No tears left to scratch away  
Just diaries of bloodstained pages  
Feelings gone astray  
But I will sing...”

  
The residue of words spoken coat the barriers of his heart; like the remnants of forgotten dreams every now and then they return and open old wounds once more.

  
“'Till everything burns,  
While everyone screams,  
Burning their lies,  
Burning my dreams  
All of this hate  
And all of this pain  
I'll burn it all down,  
As my anger reigns,  
'Till everything burns.”

Mom died in a house fire. Dad was murdered by the psycho that killed Mom, his body was burned. Dean has been to Hell, where the favoured weapon of torture is fire and pokers and burning flesh. He took a deep breath. He could do this.  
  
“Walking through life, unknown  
Knowing that no one cares  
But who can love what I won't let them touch  
No, no one's getting in here  
I just don't understand  
Why it's all got to come down to me  
But still I sing...  
  
'Till everything burns,  
While everyone screams,  
Burning their lies,  
Burning my dreams  
All of this hate  
And all of this pain  
I'll burn it all down,  
As my anger reigns,  
Til everything –“

Burns  
Everything burns,” His voice dropped much lower than before, making the tone of the song menacing and dark. Jo filtered in, parroting some of the phrases in soft harmonies.  
  
“Everything burns  
Watching it all fade away  
Everyone scream,  
Everyone scream...  
Ohhh, oh...”

Forcing the tears back, he ground out the rest of the song; he stopped playing the guitar favouring the heavy hit of the drums.

“Everything burns  
Burning their lies,  
Burning my dreams  
And all of this pain  
I'll burn it all down,  
As my anger reigns,  
'Till everything burns  
Watching it all fade away.”

  
“Watching it all fade away.” Jo finished.

The door creaked closed. Sliding down the rickety wooden frame, Dean closed his eyes. The relief would be short lived as he woke up at an ungodly time of morning, blue eyes haunting his nightmares; the scratch of his pencil against paper ricocheting eerily around his flat. He fell heavily onto his bed, groaning as the wound on his abdomen recoiled. Angel...

 

_And I'm up before you in Pacific Standard time_  
 _Trying to find the words to write a perfect rhyme_  
 _And it's such a crazy hour_  
 _But I just can't get you off my mind_  
 _Just can't get you off my mind_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song sung, hehe, ~~ Ben Moody - Everything Burns
> 
> Listen to it for the feel of the song Dean was singing yo. 
> 
> Italicized sentences will be one of four things: a thought, a memory, a song or written words


	2. Your Majesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *throws filler at you* 
> 
> Apologies.

_Na na na na na na na na na na –_

Dean smashed his hand down on the alarm before it could reach the complete 16 ‘na’s. Groaning, he rolled over onto his side. He could still feel the residual stab of pain but he swallowed it down. His mouth was dry.

Gingerly swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he sleepily rubbed the gunk from his eyes. The fridge was empty save a few bottles of beer. He closed the door and reached with a wince to the cupboard. A glass and bottle in hand, he plonked down on the wooden chair and table set he’d found. The auburn liquid swirled in the bottom of his glass.

He’s not an alcoholic, but it sure did take the edge off his wound.

Making his way haphazardly into a different t-shirt and old jeans, he found himself back in the safe parameters of the Impala. The glare of the sun was bright against his eyes, the city quiet as he drove to Singer’s salvage yard.

So singing isn’t all he does, he works part time for (his ‘uncle’) Bobby; he also checks up on the old guy considering he’s had to put up with the brunt of Dean’s shit and injures that were really bad over the years.

The street he’s driving down is clogged with traffic already. Glancing to the side, he sees the buildings that tower over the city. Big, fancy apartment blocks, towers of trade and businesses looking down on him. He’s caught staring at a guy standing with his back to the road, because a part of him is sure that’s the same thing that flaps behind Angel... Maybe it’s not a cape at all but a long tan trench coat. Yes, he’s sure of it now as he dribbles forward in the stream of beeping cars. The man turns.

Blue is caught in green.

That is. It’s angel. Standing, _staring_ at Dean, dressed as a bloody tax accountant whose previous conversation partner was trying to regain his attention. His head was tilted.

“Angel?” The word slipped out and Dean instantly regretted it, pressing his foot to the pedal, the Impala lurched as he turned down the next street, the music playing turned to max volume.

That was possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done. He banged his fists against the wheel.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” He called in mantra to himself.

Not only did he nearly _out_ a Super in public, but he almost revealed his own identity. There’s a reason Supers don’t partner up – it’s dangerous, for one. Anything could go wrong; if you’re both caught or killed it’s over. To give out your real name is like selling a piece of your soul, which is why most Supers are solitary animals. As soon as you start fighting crime, your family, your friends, your acquaintances are all in danger. From the police and bad guys.

Sam, Jess, Bobby, Ellen, Jo and Charlie are the only ones who know who he really is. And of those 6 he only told 3. Sam told Jess, Bobby knew because of John and Jo has always been too nosy for her own good.

While working on the cars he was distracted.

Angel had the most stunning features he’d ever seen; he hoped to god that he wasn’t like batman and put that low voice on just for his alter ego. He was strong built, face sharp angels and perpetually shaded by stubble. His hair, as always, was a mess and his eyes, blue and unrelenting.

In his daze he didn’t hear his ear piece buzz.

“Dean! I’ve been calling for like 10 minutes, I was starting to think sending mail by owl would have been quicker.”

“Sorry, Charlie, I was... Er... Distracted.”

“Fantasising about tall, dark and handsome?” She cooed.

“I almost outed him and myself in the middle of the street! I could have... Jesus.”

“You mean you’ve seen him for real! Is he as dreamy as his suit supplies, because if I batted for your team I would so tap that!”

“This isn’t funny. And he’s so much better. Anyway, what were you calling me about?”

“Who’s the fairest of them all?”

“Huh?” Dean stopped replacing the pipe on the inside of the junker he was working on, wiping his hands on a rag. He waved at Bobby through the window and could hear the mouthed ‘idjit’ ring through his head.

“Who is the fairest of them all, come on Dean.”

He rolled his eyes, a smile gracing his face, “You, your majesty.”

“That’s right I am. I’m also the greatest handler in the world and deserve a raise.”

Laughing full on at that, he sat on the hood of the piled up cars, beer in his hand. “This going anywhere oh great and wise one?”

“Killed it just as it was getting good. Someone tried to hack into Ash's files today.” The mirth in her tone went completely serious.

“Someone’s trying to find out-“

“What the Roadhouse is about, who owns it, where they live, what their connections are. I managed to stop them but what I’m worried about is that fact that they already knew where to look. You need to be more careful Dean. Whoever this is, and it’s not the pigs don’t worry, might have got a good look at you.”

The air collapsed through his lungs. “I fail to see how this makes you the fairest of them all.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he could practically hear the determined smirk trying to push its way through his ear piece, “I traced their encryption back.”

Placing the beer on the bonnet beside him, he slid carefully off the car. “You know where they are.”

“I know where they are.”


	3. Whispers In The Dark Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up woo!  
> ~ PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK SO FAR (:
> 
> Apologies for mistakes, no beta, late nights etc etc. Will fix when I re-read (:

“Dean, I don’t want to rush you, but haul ass dude! It’s a demon.”

Instead of gracing that with an answer, he growled into the ear piece, forcing his legs to work harder. The strain pulled and tugged at his muscles but he relished the burn, using it to fuel his speed.

Since someone was trying to find out who he was, he was back to manual transportation methods – the Impala is hardly inconspicuous.

He was coming up to the street, chest heaving as he steeled himself to enter the building. Lock picking is one of those skills that never really leave you; the locks to this apartment block were as old as Dean himself. Snorting at the ridiculousness of _life_ he kicked the door the shouting was coming from in.

Inside, a normal enough looking woman was standing, hand outstretched towards a man who was pinned against the wall. The girl’s head turned to Dean, a crooked smile on her lips and inky black bleeding over her eyes. Rolling his eyes, Dean put his best shit-eating grin on, _I really hate Demons._

“Hunter, how nice of you to join us.”

She flicked her wrist sending Dean cascading through the air into the wall. The man, still held strong by the invisible force, gave a gargled cry. Scrunching her hand up, blood dribbled out of his mouth and tears streamed down his cheeks; Dean pushed himself to his feet.

“Come on you crazy bitch, we both know the party is over here.” Throbbing at the back of his head made his face scrunch up for a minute. He blinked, trying to rid the two hazy figures from his vision.

“Hunter, you flatter yourself. This imbecile owes me money. And he’s going to pay for attempting to skip town.”

Tantalisingly slow, she strutted over to the crying man and placed her claws on his neck. Dean sprang from his faked dazed position, all three of them falling to the floor. Gasping, the man spluttered and Dean pinned the woman down, shouting at him, “Run, now!”

He could practically feel the resentment through her skin from beneath him as she lifted him into the air with unnatural force. His back crashed into the ceiling, pieces of concrete following him down; his shoulder cracked as he made contact with the floor. Once again pulling himself up, he dodged her next blows, scooting round to hold her from behind, and his forearm closing across her trachea.

“You know, for a demon you are an idiot.”

“Fu...ck... y...ou.” She managed to gasp out, her eyelids fluttering, shutting out the seeping black of her irises.

Letting her drop to the floor, he ripped a power cord from the socket, tying her wrists securely.

“I get that a lot.” Dean sighed, testing the mobility of his shoulder and brushing the debris from his hood.

Cautiously, the man peered around the doorway. He had blood all over his face and was clutching his stomach like something was trying to claw out of it.

“Hey buddy, I’m guessing you called the cops so I’m going to heal you up and scram ok?” He stepped towards the man who was surveying the mess of his flat. Dean cringed as he also turned to look: there were holes in the plaster, the ceiling was falling down in the centre, the little table in the middle was smashed and the rest was in varying levels of disarray.

“Thanks man, my name’s Peter.” He smiled, kind of sadly because Dean knew he must look like battered shit right now. Well, he felt like it anyway.

“Hey Peter,” he said, flexing his fingers and holding the young man by his shoulders, “this won’t hurt, just feels a little... Tingly?”

He is used to unconscious patients, prefers them in fact, people who are awake just want to ask questions. Case point Peter, who has decided to fill Dean’s concentration with his voice. The warmth spread around his fingers, siphoning into the man and coming back into himself.

“I’m a reporter, and er, I think it’s really unfair what the chief says about you guys. I mean look at you,” his head tilted awkwardly to look at Dean’s glowing hands and he barely managed to stop him from stumbling back, “You save people. And don’t worry, I’ll let everyone know the truth about what happened tonight. You saved my life.”

The stab in his ribs and rip in his stomach made him flinch and screw his eyes shut. His throat burned and eyes stung; he bit back the ache that wasn't his. A few agonising moments passed... Eventually, his hands stopped glowing and he felt the pain subside.

Peter raised his fingers from grasping his abdomen to playfully punch Dean on the shoulder. Although not a delicate flower, he was hurting, other Supers are far worse than just fighting crazy people. He grimaced at the contact.

“Wait, you didn't heal yourself?”

Going round the man, Dean almost left the room but was stopped by the question. Did people really think he could heal himself?

“More like couldn't buddy,” he chuckled darkly.

“Dude! Your power blows! What’s...? What is even the point if you can’t even heal yours-“

He could stand there and listen to the repeat of the same thing he had said to himself as a child. As convenient as it would be to be able to fix all his wounds, he has a patchwork of scars that prove it otherwise. Of course, his powers save people; to a certain extent have saved his life before.

The car crash for example. If a normal human had of been in his position, they would have never woken from the coma.

“Charlie, you got anything else for me?” Pressing his ear piece he fled the scene, pushing the door from its fallen hinges on the way out.

“Sure thing Deano. A couple of blocks over we got a drive by shooting. One injured... The other was DOA.”

“Paramedics already on scene?” He broke into a brisk run. The paramedics weren’t so bad, they mostly ignored him.

“Yeah, police aren’t far behind so I’d hurry.”

“Gotcha.”

When he arrived, there was an ambulance pulled up by the side of the road. Two people were lying in stretchers and a small crowd had gathered to see the event.

Uncaring of the glances he got, limping by this point, he pushed through them.

“Let me help.”

The wariness in the human eyes that stared at him was blotted out by Dean kneeling by the oozing body of the adult. There was blood seeping into the bandage on their chest and he could see the sharp, irregular rise and fall of the person’s torso.

He braced his hands against the wound, ignoring the fresh scream of pain, and allowed the heat to fill him once more. The tips of his fingers burnt and he could feel the metallic scent trickle through his bloodstream. Gradually, the person’s chest sopped heaving. Dean sat back on his haunches, willing the hole in his lung to hurry the hell up and close already. He didn’t gasp at the sting of it; he was used to the feeling of absorbing the wound now.

Turning his attention to the child, sadness filled his soul. The eyes were glassy; the medics had given up on him before Dean had got there. He shook his head. The guy who he had saved had to be restrained as he spewed abuse at Dean. Somewhere in the distance he heard sirens singing.

“Dean, he was DOA. Get out of there.”

He debated it, hand hovering at the ear piece. He clicked her off.

Gently, he placed one hand on the clammy skin of the child’s head and the other on the gaping wound in his abdomen.

The only way to describe the pain of bringing a body back to life is to imagine yourself going supernova. It is a brilliant heat that fills you up and burns through your veins. Light shines through your eyes, desperate to escape and you can feel the pressure building up and up until... It has to be released.

That’s how Anna died.

Dean shivered at the memory. She was the only Super with powers that vaguely resembled his own and she had exploded out. There was no way to save her.

He forced the thought of her away, focusing instead on chasing the little flicker of light he could feel within the boy. Wounds that have to be healed are dark; Dean absorbs that absolute blackness into himself and the person is fine. Bringing someone back, however, means searching for the light.

Shallow breaths escaped his taut mouth and he felt a bead of sweat dribble down his face. It was right there... On the tip of his tongue... He could almost grasp it with his fingertips, just brushing unfathomably close. His eyes burst open.

All at once he was consumed by heat. He was choking on it. Gasping, he forced his trembling hands to remain on the boy.

It was like a length of rope. Latched onto the light, he yanked.

The temperature soared through his veins and he fell back, shaking and sweating against the side of the ambulance.

Young lungs stuttered back into life.

He passed out.

Stunned, he stared into the small light being shone in his eyes. The wailing was close now. Too close.

 _Fuck_.

Inhaling quick breaths, he staggered to his feet, sparing a fleeting glance at the father and son caught in an embrace. His eyes barely met those of the man as he dashed into the alley across from them.

Clumsily (due to the wounds and the general lightheaded feeling) he fell over a fence and stumbled forward. Lungs screaming and body beginning to shut down he blinked hard the haze that spilled into his vision.

Not yet. Not now.

The reflection of patriotic red and protective blue was coating and chasing him down the next turn. Cries of the sirens taunted him, creeping and crawling closer and closer.

He fell straight into a screeching car. Turning on his heel he leaped to the fire escape, desperately trying to pull himself up with one arm. There were hands on his legs.

Dragged down back into the pits of hell, he was surrounded by heavy duty soldiers, hands cuffed behind his back; a hard boot to the back of his leg sending him down to his knees. From above he could hear the blades of a chopper wurring. Dejectedly, he kept his head down. Eyes closed, he swallowed and waited for the inevitable. _Sammy was right._

The officer who had restrained him stepped back. They all fidgeted in his peripheral, awaiting their superior.

“Hunter, you scum on a stick.” The patronising voice was clipped and cold. Internally, Dean’s stomach twisted in knots at the thought of him; he never understood what happened to the Supers who were caught but he was damn sure it wasn't pretty.

“Zach, come all this way for little old me?” He couldn't help teasing the old man. Zachariah Milton had become Police Chief a few years after Dean hit it big as Hunter. They had been mortal enemies ever since.

A hand closed hard on the back of his head, scratching through the fabric of his hood and into his skull.

The old man bent down next to his ear, “Believe me, I had no interest in popping down here, but when I heard it was you... I just couldn’t resist.”

On the word ‘resist’ he viciously yanked Dean’s hood from his head. He shivered as his dirty blonde hair met the open air of the alley. The eyes of the officers weighed heavy on him, his jaw twitching nervously beneath his bandanna.

The drag of that wrinkly finger at the top of his cover was interrupted by a flutter of wings.

 “This is wrong.” A voice like gravel says.

Just as Dean looks up, he feels a weight on his shoulder and yelps at the sudden sensation of limbo. Body falling back onto solid ground, he stumbles forward; there is a hand on his arm to stop him from collapsing completely.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean shouts when he realises that he is teetering over the edge of Aon Centre, on the other side of LA. He blindly grapples onto the hand and shuffles back from the edge.

Everything snaps back into place at once and he’s turning to face his rescuer. Angel is staring at him, concerned blue eyes shining through his mask.

“Hello Hunter, apologies for your landing. The first flight is always the hardest.”

A laugh breezes past his lips. “Yeah, thanks Angel... Wait, did you say flight?”

“Yes, my wings.”

Dean spluttered, “You have wings?!” Not as subtly as he had hoped, he tried to see behind Angel, scrutinizing his trench coat and body.

Angel chuckled, a weird sounding notion, like he didn’t really know how. “They can only be seen in this corporeal realm if I allow them to be or if I am gravely injured.”

“Huh.” He caught himself eye to eye with Angel when he remembered his handler. “Shit Charlie!” Scrambling at his ear, he turns his back to Angel.

“Dean Winchester that had better be you standing on top of the second tallest tower in LA.” She didn’t sound too pissed. That’s a plus.

“How did you-“

“I can hack a camera feed you dimwit. Now, please tell me you are with Superman, Lois Lane.”

“Oh, haha. You think that’s funny? I am _not_ Lois Lane. And he ain’t no Superman. I nearly got unmasked!”

“Stop crying, you have just lost your touch. Unfortunately, they made another stab at it tonight, I know you were busy but you really, _really_ need to wingardium leviosa your ass over to that sky scraper and find out who it is.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face. Bone tired doesn’t even begin to explain it; if these people found Ellen out... Not even his genius little lawyer moose could help them then. Not that Sammy wants to know Dean – at all – the last message he’d got was to tell him that his new song was one of Jess’ favourites. That was 3 weeks ago.

“Yeah, book it in for tomorrow.”

“Gotcha, make sure he drops you home safe Deano.”

Wisely, she cut off before he could make a retort back, so he looked like an idiot trying to crush his ear with his finger, face in a pout.

 “Hunter?”

 _Oh yeah, I’m on top of a friggin skyscraper with God damn_ Angel.

“Yeah?”

“I have been told that my social understanding is somewhat lacking, but I think it would be beneficial for us to exchange numbers in case back up is required. We could be valuable to one another.”

The mantra of Dean’s brain telling him not to zone in on the innuendo of what Angel had said was drowned out by the memory of his father.

 

_John swigged angrily at the bottle of Jack in his hand as though it had been the cause of all his problems. Stomping close to his son, he lifted the puny healer by the collar of his shirt._

_“Boy, you don’t get much right. But even you can’t fail to mess this up. Never,_ ever _, give away your identity. Not to a Super, not to a girl. NO ONE.”_

_The fist connected with Dean’s cheekbone._

_“Do you understand me, boy?”_

_“Yessir.”_

 

He sighed, “Thanks Angel, but I can handle myself.”

Angel made a noncommittal noise behind him. “You do not trust me.”

“Why the hell should I?!” Whirling around, he stared Angel cold in the eye. For the first time, the other Super was the first to look away.

“I thought that over time, we had developed a... Friendship... Of sorts.” The guy looked like he had never had this conversation in his life. He is correct, as well, making Dean’s stomach churn and his heart skip.

Then he did something Dean would have bet his life against.

Slowly, he lifted his mask off.

There before Dean he once more looked into those blue ( _blueblueblue_ ) eyes, then scanned down to the same sharp cheek bones and stubble covered jaw line. He swallowed.

Unmasked, the man stood before Dean. “My name is Castiel Novak. You can trust me.”

Castiel? What is that religious or something... _Oh, Angel, right._ Turmoil echoed through Dean’s whole being. Struggling he sighed mad at himself, “Hey Cas, but it’s still Hunter... For now.”

The sag of the Cas’ face brightened into something that vaguely resembled hope. Vaguely, because Cas’ face was like a stone slab, almost no emotion leaking through.

“Can we er... Get down?”

Cas nodded and, with his eyes closed and knees slightly bent, the hand on his shoulder became limbo then there was solid concrete beneath his feet.

When his eyes opened, Cas was gone.

“You suck at goodbyes.” He called out to the dark, empty street.

Trudging his way back home, he made the mental note to have Charlie check him out tomorrow.


	4. Whispers In The Dark Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean breaks into Cake-a Erotica, the largest (most diverse) multi-institutional work place in LA. From the bakery to the accountancy, it's a sky scraper that goes all the way up to a penthouse suite. Everything was swell... 
> 
> Then he lost communication from Charlie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while!
> 
> Thanks for reading, apologies for mistakes... blah blah the usual.
> 
> PLEASE FEEDBACK IF YOU HAVE TIMMMME. Please. I'd love to hear what you think so far. 
> 
> I love Gabe so much. He will never be dead to me.

Running.

Always he finds himself running.

At times like these, he envies Sam because his genius little brother _chooses_ to go on inhuman, crack of dawn jogs – Dean being the only one who requires the stamina. Somewhere behind him, he heard the walkman he had converted into a scrambler drop and crack. So much for James Bond style escaping.

And Charlie isn’t answering the God damn comms system. He could feel his lungs burning and his heart was pumping battery acid through his veins. The wails were getting closer. Inching and gaining. He didn’t stand a chance.

As he turned down the next alley, nausea hit his stomach. That is definitely the same dumpster he just jumped over. A sight loomed ahead of him, causing his legs to stutter. _Nononono._ Dead end. Game over.

He turned back. Twice in the space of a day; what kind of luck is that?

The laws of averages answered for him and he slammed straight into the metal frame of a car door. Although he had heard screeching, he hadn’t realised just how close the cops had gotten. Quickly pulling himself from the floor with a grunt, he stood with his hands up.

From the other side of the door, he heard the tale-tale click of high heels. Squinting in the darkness of the alley, he saw red stilettos dance in the shadows and followed the skin up to a scantily dressed woman... A red devil.

Dean stared. The other car door opened. On his left, he took a few steps back, another pair of heels clicked but they were pure white to match an angel outfit.

In disbelief, he coughed uneasily and rubbed his hand at the fabric on the back of his neck.

“I have really got to stop drinking so much before bed.”

What surprised him (other than the two not-police officer women and total weirdness and _realness_ of his situation), was that he wasn’t fully interested in the two beautiful women. Except, perhaps, the angel; whose cropped black hair and electric eyes was looking him up and down. Gently, he pinched his arm. Nothing happened.

“Huh.” In itself, it might have been inadmissible, but there was an itch in his veins that screamed at him that this was wrong. Almost unnatural. 

The alley streets warped into pitch blackness. It was infinite. Dean thought he might have fallen into the depths of his own soul.

A single spotlight turned on.

Blinking at the light he laughed at the sight before him. There was, (what the hell was he _drinking_ last night?!), an alien; its head large and inky eyes bulging atop of its wiry, sickly yellow frame. Not only that, it was clinging to something... A man. It kind of looked like-

“Andy?!”

Yup, it looked a lot like poor Andy; he was being forced to slow dance with this extraterrestrial being to Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’.

He frowned. Something bony ran across the small of his back. In front of him, a shorter being glanced up with owlish, unblinking black pools.

“Oh Hell no. Sorry but I don’t dance. Especially not with your fugly ass.”

Suddenly, the thing pushed him back and he was falling. For the first time since almost losing Sammy, he felt fear. He had always hated flying. This was almost as bad. He was falling. Deemed to spend an eternity in this loop of a nightmare.

The bones of his back connected with the floor with a loud thud. Wincing, Dean rolled onto his front. Light exploded into the room. Disorientated by the fall, he took a few slow blinks to readjust himself. Glinting metal caught his eye.

Then revving.

Then cruching.

Immediately, he was on his feet and running.

Sprinting on an increasingly narrow path, surrounded by swamps and a stench that clang to his clammy skin and made bile rise in his throat; he could hear his assailant gaining on him. His hood had fallen down in his run, but he could hardly worry about that now (at least the bandana had him covered). There was a doorway ahead of him. If he could only reach...

As soon as his face breached the doorway, he internally face palmed. Whatever the fuck was going on, it was messing with him. Wrapped across his face was clear flimsy plastic.

“Son of a bitch!” He mumbled into the plastic stuck to his bandana. Dean tripped forward where he hit his nuts on a tree stump.

“WHAT THE HELL!” Groaning he dropped to his knees... Only for the ground to begin to shake beneath him; he cursed at the sky. Growling in return, wind and dust and debris began to reel around him. He could feel himself being lifted up with it.

Snap!

That sounded almost like a-

“Shark!” Dean scrambled backwards only to be swept up in a strong gust of wind. Things were whirling past him and if this was a dream it was starting to feel more like reality. The way his side hurt; the crippling in his head. And then, something happened.

He let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. He found escape.

“HUNTER!”

Despite recognising the voice, he couldn’t bring himself out of this place he found. It was serene and absolute.

“HUNTER!?” The voice sounded more frantic now, higher pitched than before, as if whomever it belonged to could not believe the sight of a sharknado either.

Realisation hit Dean like jaws around his arm... Wait-

“Cas?”

 “Uh... What are you doing here?” His voice was deep, rough like sandpaper, ripping through the calm. Gasping back into his body, the limbo sensation left him. He dragged a hand down his face that had connected with the merciless floor.

“Me?” Strenuously, he rolled onto his back, staring up at the blue stars in a white sky. Had he just identified Cas as Angel, no wait, he just called Angel Cas. Jesus, he really needs to lay off the brandy before bed. “What are _you_ doing he-“

The sound of slow clapping echoed through the room.

“Gabriel?” Cas said.

“Who the fuck is-“

“Hey Castiel!”

The man materialized into Dean’s view beside Cas. He was looking down at him, scrutinising his form. Shrugging, he flicked a wrist at Cas, pinning him to an invisible wall with duck tape over his mouth. He then proceeded to pull a lollipop out of thin air.

“And that kids is why you don’t take pills from a guy named Don.” Dean drawled. He made it to his knees when he felt a boot holding him down on his back.

“Now listen very closely. Here's what's gonna happen. You’re going to explain, in very fine detail 1, who you are and 2, what the hell you’re doing in this building!”

“I could ask you the same thing, douche bag.”

The 'Gabriel’s' eyebrows hit his sandy hair line.

“Excuse me?”

“You... Or this,” Dean gestured to the blank white walls around them, “Hacking illegally into people’s files. You started this; I’m here to stop it.”

By the time Dean had made it to his feet, sagging slightly on his right side and self consciously pulling his hood over his head, Gabriel had popped into existence a 1900’s fancy embroidered chair and was comfortably lounged in it, with a nice touch of what appeared to be Cuban cigars on the table in front of him.

“Come, sit.” He clicked his fingers. All Dean felt was a sudden pressure at the backs of his knees and both he and Angel were forced into chairs and were being tucked into an accompanying table. Struggling to get out of the chair, he ultimately decided that maybe he should hear the guy out. _He hasn’t killed me yet, at least._

“Candy?” The man offered. Dean shook his head and Cas’ eyes looked to the heavens, then back to Dean.

The silent question ‘are you alright?’ didn’t go unnoticed by Gabriel.

“Oookay. Well, Hunter was it? Here’s how it’s gunna go: I’m going to ask you some questions, you are going to answer. You then can ask me some questions, if I am satisfied with your previous answers. And then Cassie is going to explain why you are ‘Hunter’ and he is ‘Cas’. Savvy?”

Dean sighed. “Shoot.”

He grinned. “Maybe later.”

They both heard Cas’ heavy exhale through his nose.

“All work and no play Cassie, you always have been. Down to business.” He pulled the lolli out with a loud pop. “You broke into my building, why?”

“I already told you, you were hacking into a friend of mine’s files.” Dean groused. He really needed to get a hold of Charlie.

“This friend have a name?” He was still grinning, though its intensity had dimmed a little.

“No.”

“Ok, what do you know about the Roadhouse bar?”

Instantly, he was bolting against his restraints. He blinked and shrugged. “Not much.”

“How do you know Cassie? Better yet, how do you know him as _Cas_.”

“We have a mutual beneficial working relationship. He outed himself to me, so why don’t you ask him before you go all Guantanamo on my ass.” Dean leaned back; he was feeling more confident now, this guy and Cas, Angel, must be friends so he is fairly certain he isn’t under threat. Unless they call the cops. Or just unmask him. _Shit._

Cas was glaring at him from across the table. _Double shit._

“Not good enough, but it will do for now. You got any questions _Hunter_?”

Dean tapped his finger on the arm of the chair nervously. “Who’s side are you on?”

The man exhaled. “Neither.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” He was almost shouting but couldn’t bring himself to care. You are either a supporter of freedom or the bad guys.

“It means, muttonhead, that I do not cheerlead for the Supers or the Demons or anyone. I just was to run my business.”

“Why are you trying to find out about the Roadhouse?”

Gabriel made a noise like an incorrect buzzer. “You gave me a bullshit answer so I’m not answering that.”

“Well sto-“

The vocal cords in Dean’s throat seemed to give way. He screamed breathlessly to no avail. A groan from ahead of him drew his attention. Gabriel unceremoniously ripped the duck tape from Cas’ mouth.

“Gabriel you-“

“Shush shush shush little brother. Now you wanna share with the class why you thought it was a good idea to OUT YOURSELF TO ANOTHER SUPER?!”

“I,” The stoic exterior faltered as Dean held his gaze, “We have known each other for years. I have saved Hunter’s life many times and he has proved a valuable asset. You wanted me to be more careful, so had the intention of partnering up. Hunter is the only Super besides Balthazar that I have ever interacted positively with; we both know how you feel about him.”

Waving his hand at Cas, Gabriel turned his attention to Dean.

Inside Dean was praising the _Lord_ that his face was covered, because a wildfire of a blush burned up his neck and onto his cheeks.

“How do you feel about partnership with another Super?”

Venomously, Dean shook his head.

“Hmm, seems you’re at an impasse Cassie. Hang on, though, so you just told him your real name and expected him not to come after you?”

“My ‘people skills’ are ‘rusty’!” Making the hand movements to emphasise his point, he glared knives at Gabriel.

Dean growled in his silenced throat. Gabriel raised an eyebrow at him and clicked his fingers.

“I came here because _you_ -“

“Were hacking files, yes. You’ve mentioned.” He snapped his fingers again.

Dean made a strangled noise.

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“Was saving him from unmasking ‘absolutely necessary’?” He mimicked the other man.

A seeping hush cloaked them; eyes were flicking around the table, only the rustle of candy wrappers breaking the veil. Abruptly, Cas turned to Dean.

“Charlie called me. Gabriel is my handler. They’ve met. We’ve agreed, if you would consent, to exchange numbers. She and Gabriel will be sorting the details later.”

He stared at Cas.

Rolling his eyes, Gabriel clicked his fingers once more. “Thanks for telling me, bro.”

“My apologies, Gabe.”

“You think that after all this I want to partner up?” His throat felt scratchy and dry, but it did make him sound more threatening.

“Technically, you broke in so...” Gabriel flicked the wrappers he'd scrunched into balls in his direction. He smiled, holding his hand out. “Truce?”

“I don’t trust Supers. And I don’t need your help.” Dean said through clenched teeth, pushing his chair out and making it scrape sharp along the floor.

“Perhaps not yet. I would think that my trust can be earned. Hunter, I’m not asking. And by the sounds of your handler, she will be telling.”

Dean sighed. He wasn’t going to catch a break with Charlie, Angel and Gabriel on his case. If he was being honest with himself, he misses having a partner greatly. And he likes Angel – maybe he can get to know more about Cas too...

“Fine. I’ll have Charlie sort the details with Gabe.”

“You’re not going to tell us your name?” Gabe called as Dean made his way to the door.

“Later dickbag.” Cheerfully, Dean returned.

Having Angel as a partner wouldn’t be so bad. He might even be a good influence. He snorted to himself; pressed his finger to ear to call Charlie.

Everything there was to know about Castiel and Gabriel Novak, he wanted to know it. There had to be a reason they were trying to reach out to other good Supers. It wasn’t like they needed it considering their sweet set up.

Unfortunately, he has a just less than 3 hour walk back to his apartment to mull over his new bond.


	5. Odd Jobs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe and Cas get a gift.
> 
> Charlie ships it.
> 
> Angel and Hunter go on their first job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another filler, and it took me ages. Sorry.
> 
> I really love writing Gabe. Ergh. I love him uwu.
> 
> So the next chapter should be up pretty quick, cos i have already written most of it (don't talk to me my writing of the plot is just ridiculous ok)
> 
>  
> 
> I hope it will be worth the wait... PLEASE FEEDBACK IF YOU HAVE TIME. I LOVE ALL OF YOU ASDFGHJKL. 
> 
> Oh and like there will be a whole bunch of songs in this story, I will reference all of them at the very end. In the meantime, no copyright infringement intended.

The brothers stared at one another. Eventually, Gabe broke the silence with a huff.

“What?”

Cas scowled. “You. You did not need to do that, especially without my consent. Hunter is a righteous man.”

Rolling his eyes, Gabe stood and strode towards the opposite door way, when the elevator dinged. A much more apprehensive glance was shared. Slowly, they went towards the open door, revealing a small box and a note on top.

_‘Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. At last he said, “I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely.”'_

_Do not judge him based on what you think you know. Hunter is worth working to earn his trust. Angel, I know he already trusts you, but he’s gotta never show it. Maybe you’ll learn why some day._

_Gabe, these are headsets, one for you and one for Angel. Give me a call._

_Yes I hacked into your system. Yes I left this in your elevator and there will be no photographic proof. I am awesome._

_Oh and next time, offer him a lift. Not everyone lives in Bellaire’s mansions._

He made quick work of the box, eager like a child to a present, handing Cas the other. Glancing up at his little brother, he turned, striding quickly into the lift; pressing the button to his floor. Cas was staring at the box, frowning at the black ear piece inside.

“Don’t even think about calling him. I’m going to sort some things out with his handler first.” Cas nodded his assent just as the doors closed around his figure.

 

He sighed. Actually, he wanted nothing more than to call him and ask where he was and give him that lift. Then he would know where he lived and wouldn’t feel perplexed by Charlie’s message. She is a good handler; when she offered the opportunity to partner up he knew it was as much for Hunter’s benefit as his own. There was still blood drying on his upper lip, so instead of going to the new technology floor (his personal favourite) or archives, he crossed Gabriel’s perception room to climb the stairs to the floor above.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring them. He hopes that he has not misjudged his character and that Hunter will not be obnoxious towards him. It was not, after all, him who trapped him in Gabe’s perceptual land – though he should have known someone like Hunter would be connected to the Roadhouse. For the storm Cas was sure is coming, they are going to need all the help they can get.

 

“What do you mean you’ll meet me there?” Cas growled through the new earpiece that was an unnatural weight tugging at his ear, though it felt – indescribable – to be talking, _working_ , with Hunter.

“Hunter, it would be easier if you just let him pick you up.”

“Come of Lois, just-“

“GUYS. I will meet you there Angel.”

The comms went quiet. Sighing, Dean started to jog to the street address Gabe had called in.

“At least we know why you’re so buff.”

“Gabe.” Charlie laughed.

Stood in the doorway of the building, Cas debated going inside without Hunter. _No, that’s not how you start a good working relationship._ Patience was always Cas’ strong point; no more than 2 minutes later, Hunter was striding towards him.

“Ready?”

“Of course.”

Flitting them both into the room, they apprehended the suspects. Cas took the one on the right. A gnarly looking Demon that made objects fly across the room. His flight was faster though, so he flew closer and closer with each object until he was close enough to punch her in the face. She staggered back, snarling at him but he cut her off with a flick of his omnipresent wing. Rebounding off the wall, she slumped down unconscious.

Dean on the other hand circled a man, older than the woman, who was grinning with a wicked intensity. He dropped the bag, allowing the contents of stolen goods to fall out onto the floor. The man lunged, Dean dodging to avoid the blow. He then changed his tact and rugby tackled Dean with abnormal strength. Both men surged backwards, Dean colliding with the plaster wall and cascading through it with a grunt.

The man was heavier than he looked. _Figures._

He was also about to plant a jaw crushing blow when all at once, the weight was gone. Dean looked up to see Cas pulling the man off him and shoving him harshly back through the plaster. Getting to his feet, Dean grabbed the first thing his hands fell on; Cas held the man up as Dean whacked him around the head.

The frying pan made a dull thud as it connected with the man’s thick skull.

Dean twirled the utensil around his hand. “I have got to get me one of these!”

Cas chuckled as he secured the wrists of the man.

“Shall we?” He asked, while Hunter was fondly testing the weight of the pan in his hands.

Smirking, Hunter looked up, mischief in his eyes. “I thought you’d never ask. Char, Gabe, where we headed to next?”


	6. Grade A Douchebags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last few months have been good. Fucking great actually. 
> 
> But, it's a big turn out and all the favourites are showing up to play.
> 
> Wish they hadn't gone Hudu on Cas' chest though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really couldn't decide whether to post this chapter tonight. You see, I was going to have all the like dialogue after. But, alas, I'd rather watch you squirm.
> 
> Hopefully.
> 
> I want my writing to make you comment uwu, like really, I'd love to hear more on what you think.
> 
> So the next chapter will be up Tuesday, wasn't happy with it tonight, sorry. Mistakes, as always, will be altered as and when I see them, but apologies in advance for any you find. 
> 
> Happy squirming -xo

They had been working together for a few months now and it was, dare Dean admit it, nice. The routine they had, it worked. Hell, they worked. A team, a unit, a bond. Whatever you want to label it, the chemistry and dynamic was there for them. Life... Life was pretty good in Winchester standards.

“Dean?”

He was already on his way to the location Charlie had given him when she spoke again on the comms.

“Yeah Char?” Trying not to slow his pace, he inhaled a deep breath through his mask and pushed himself to keep running. This would be a lot easier if he wasn’t being such a sissy girl about Angel picking him up. _Oh my fucking God Winchester. Get it together. Just because you have a dominance kin-_

Enough thoughts about Cas. It was way too early, and he was way too public, to start imagining Cas pinning him to a wall or carrying him to his mattress and-

“I’ve been monitoring the cameras and... There are some pretty heavy hitters turning up.”

Dean huffed. “All the more reason for us to break up the party.”

“I don’t see how this would be considered a party, Dean.” Cas deadpanned. The will power not to laugh was not enough, a low chuckle breaking out of Dean’s panting lungs.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Don’t mind me, but, am I missing something here?”

And there’s the kicker. There were about 1001 things that, yes, Gabe and Cas were missing right now. Like, for one, how Dean all but sold his soul to the Demons ex leader, Lilith, to stop her from getting to Sammy – more importantly using his power to get away with whatever they wanted. She was Lucifer’s prodigy. A formidable, deceivingly innocent, young girl.

Now though, everyone, including the slime ball that was the British entrepreneur, who worked for or knew someone who was a part of the Crossroads (basically, everyone bad who goes bump in the night) knew who Dean Winchester was. Luckily, they didn’t know he was Hunter.

If he ever got ousted, Heaven and Hell would meet somewhere in the middle to smoke his ass.

“We have some underground connections. A lot of the big bad are showing up today. Meg, Gordon, Bart... Alastair.”

“Son of a bitch.” Faltering, Dean cursed himself to carry on.

“Alastair?” His name on Cas’ voice sounded wrong. Hell, the bastard’s name sent dean’s skin crawling, like chalk on a board or the static of an un-tuned TV.

“The grade A douchebag,” Charlie chimed.

Dean sighed with relief. Charlie is family; no one outside of family knows the truth about Winchesters. That part of his past is best if Cas doesn't remember.

“So this warehouse, what exactly are we walking into?” The other thing Dean Winchester is known for is the smooth conversation change.

“I got the cameras feeds up here, at least 5 guys-“

“5 demons, more than 2 normals.”

“How in the Hell can you tell that?” Gabe’s indignant squawk sent the sound of rustling candy wrappers through the mics.

“You were supposed to be cutting down on your consumption of candy.”

“Chill bro.”

“I ran their faces through the police database; the Roadhouse database; me and Deano have some pretty good experience with these guys.”

Angel was waiting just outside the abandoned lot. Together they checked the perimeter of and surveyed the area surrounding the now not so vacant building. No one was standing outside (except them) and they briefly discussed the best way for this to go down.

Which would have been great, and all, if two of the demons hadn’t warped the area and tricked them straight into a trap; the last thing Dean saw was Angel fighting off 3 guys trying to hold him down. The arm across his throat closed off his blood supply. Unconsciousness always had a way of creeping up on him.

 

He woke. His head ached. The cool of the building had sunk into his body. On the plus side, his hood hadn’t been pulled down. A groan from beside him startled his body into action. Straining against the rope that bound his wrists, he pleaded silently for Cas to look at him.

The man’s head was lolling on his shoulders. His blue eyes dull and glossed over. Dean’s eyes roamed down the awkward angle of their position, instantly meeting his carved and bloody chest. Holding back the cry, he shifted again in his seat.

There was blood everywhere. And bodies. But mostly blood.

Only one figure remained.

“Well, well, well if it isn’t the little birdy and his Hunter friend.”

He closed his eyes. Hoping to God, Buddah, Hell _Lucifer_ at this point that Charlie and Gabe were listening. That Charlie was sending back up for Cas. His chest was bad. Like, he could definitely die bad.

“I see you were admiring my work.” The raspy voice continued, “I’ve been called the Piccaso of our time. Though, I confess, the weight of a knife and canvas of a body is far more appeasing than some painter, don’t you think?”

Opting for silence, Dean forced himself to evaluate the situation. _Think Dean, what have you been taught?_

“You two interrupted our meeting, that’s not very polite.” Alastair was close now (not that he knew that Dean knew who he was, or that his body already carried many scars from that man’s sick hand) the knife, balancing between his thin, wispy fingers.

Dean continued to act oblivious. Rubbing his wrists against the chair he was slumped in, he once again tested their bond. He felt the pull of the fibres give way a little. A fist connected with his face. And another, and another.

Cas made a noise between a growl and a moan. Dean didn’t know if it was in response to his own pain or Dean’s.

In a single cocky move, Alastair ripped the knife upwards through the rope, cutting Dean’s hands free. Before Dean could register the freedom of his hands, Alastair had pulled him up and into a twisted embrace, the blade slicing into his abdomen, causing him to slump further into the man. His mistake was that a single knife wound would incapacitate him.

Pulling back with new found strength, Dean turned the blade on itself and into the body of that vile human being. He did not hesitate.

Dodging strait to Cas, he held one hand against his side to stop the bleeding. For a moment his hands floundered over his blood covered chest. The adrenaline of the situation kicked in. That and the all too familiar screech of car wheels and sirens were making their way over. He quickly untied Cas and, looping one arm under Cas’ own, made their way hastily and clumsily out of the building.

He looked left and right.

“Charlie, Gabe, please tell me you guys are looking for a way out for us right now.”

“Deano.” They simultaneously replied.

“How’s Cas is he...”

“He’s in bad shape man, but I’m going to find a way out of this.”

There was no way of escaping this if the cops were already this close. They were at the edge of the city; the Seaside freeway was hooting over their heads.

He was only half stumbling, their pace slowing the more Cas was leaning into him. Cursing, he let Cas drop to the ground as gently as he could. They were under the freeway entirely now, in some last ditch attempt to hide, the soft lapping of water being drowned out by the angry cries of the pursuing officers.

Charlie was swearing at him in Vulcan. At least in Vulcan. There could be some Hobbitish, maybe some Russian thrown in there too.

Gabe was describing in elaborate detail or the things he was going to magic into existence for each of the bastards that had laid a finger on Cas, then how he was going to strangle Dean if they both didn’t make it out ok.

He turned his back on Cas’ body. The wails were starting to blank out the solid pump of blood in his ears.

Dean pressed his finger to his ear in frustration. “It’s fine Char, don’t worry. Gabe, he’ll be ok, I promise.”

“I’ll stop worrying when I know you’re both –“

“Oh I have your word do –“

He cut them off. Turning back to Cas, he nearly fell over himself.

“Holy fuck.”

Outstretched behind Cas were two enormous thunder black wings, easily 6 ft in wingspan, varying from gun metal plumage right to inky black primaries. Part of him wanted nothing more than to run his worked, calloused hands through the soft feathers, but he refrained. Cas had once said that only if he wanted or, more importantly, if he was ‘gravely injured’ would his wings be visible. He forced the bile down.

There was thick crimson coating his fingers where he tried to stop the bleeding from Cas’ various injuries.

“Shit.”

The fucking assholes that had done this had carved some kind of symbol into his chest. Time was most definitely of the essence, so he committed the patterns to memory and, if he survived this, decided to look it up in some of Bobby’s old scriptures. Some of the cuts looked extremely deep.

 “Cas,” the man’s unfocused eyes strained to look into his own, “It’s ok. Look at me. I need you to do something...”

His lids started to flutter shut; Dean shifted so that he was leaning over him. God, this is so chick flick Dean can almost _hear_ the smirk on Sam’s face.

“You dumb son of a bitch, look at me.”

Blue hit green. Coughing up blood, Cas tried to say something, Dean merely silenced him by cupping his cheek.

“When I say,” The screaming wails were getting closer, cutting him off, “'Now', you gotta fly to 56 Baker Street, Inglewood, flat 22. Can you do that?”

Cas was grasping at his sleeve and nodded his head weakly.

Dean took a deep breath.

_I'd rather die on the day that I give you a kiss  
Than spend the rest of my life knowing I never did_

“My name is Dean.” He could already feel the heat building up in him. Sharply pressing his lips to Cas’ own, he could taste the copper from his chapped lips and closed his eyes to allow himself this, if it were to be, his final moment. Letting his powers seep into Cas’ almost comatose body, he screamed as the energy built up. “Now!”

Collapsing forward in his flat, the men dropped to the floor with synchronized grunts. Dean had to keep contact with Cas. There were more than 5 fatal wounds littering his body; he had only healed two.

The burn was excruciating. He fought to hold it back, instead jerking Cas’ body and pushing up on his knees to slump him onto his mattress. Cas groaned. Heavily breathing, Dean blinked his eyes shut and clasped his fingertips onto the warm, nauseatingly slick with blood, skin.

He screamed.

There was just one more to go. Everywhere hurt. The heat bubbled beneath his skin, cracking his own wounds open with a vice like pressure. Light bled out, bright and blinding.

The final lesion closed.

Dean staggered back.

Throwing his head upwards, he clawed at his chest. Everything was too vivid, too hot, too intense. Knees buckling, he fell to the floor. He did his best to crawl away from Cas; if he was going to explode out he ran the very real risk of cremating Cas with him.

The heat surged up his throat and he cried out a last piercing defiance before he could not clamp it in any longer.

Light emitted from his body and the room became ablaze with pure white heat...

Falling forward, he felt the heat siphon out along with his consciousness. His form lay lifeless on the charred floor.


	7. Fruit Basket Full of Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not going to talk about it. Nope. If they do, they'll over analyse just how close they were getting... How this was dredging further and further from Super bro's ("Heh like Mario." "Who's Mario, Dean?") and more like... Bro's. 
> 
> I mean, that's what friends do for one another right?
> 
> Constantly save each other's asses. Sleep in each other's bed. Bring each other pie. 
> 
> Sam is the best brother ever. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's up :D
> 
> Thank you again to those who commented, would like to know what y'all think.
> 
> It may not seem like alot, but i really, like seriously, it means the world to me, all the kudos this has got. 
> 
> Next chapter: Mondayish (: im so bad at updating, if not tonight some point this week sorryy guysss (:
> 
> Apologies for mistakes, will fix as/when blah blah blah 
> 
> Enjoy kiddos -xo

Cas shuddered awake. Gasping, he clutched his chest, the phantom rip of flesh teasing his body into the waking world.

He looked down. Though he was shirtless (of which he had no recollection of happening) his torso was not bleeding. There were no scars, no scratches, _nothing_ that would suggest that the fight in that abandoned warehouse was anything more than a horrific nightmare.

“Hunter!” He said aloud, finally taking in his surroundings; quickly realising this was not his bed. Head tilted in confusion, he looked out at the burnt objects ahead of him. It was as though someone had set a flash fire, then immediately put it out. On the other hand, it didn’t look like there were many possessions to start with.

The scent of smoke hung oppressively in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a prone figure beside him.

“Hunter?”

Castiel couldn’t remember what had happened. There was a void where he knew something should be.

Behind his head, partially burned curtains allowed splotches of light through the grimy window. Hunter’s form lay, barely moving, illuminated in soft lights and highlighted by dark shadows.

“Hunter, what did you do?” Cautiously, he brushed his hand backwards through the man’s hair. He was stripped out of his costume; it was the first time he got to see his face, lips slightly parted as soft breaths escaped through them. The area around his eye was purple and blotchy; a corner of his lip was torn and scabbing over. Even despite this, he was beautiful. Maybe because of this, he mused.

He had no desire to move. The bed, though unconventional and impractical, was surprisingly comfortable. And there was Hunter. Beside him. In the bed. Castiel closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he scanned the vicinity of where he was laying for his ear piece. Spotting it, he reached across Hunter and clipped it on. He immediately called both Gabe and Charlie (out of a force of habit).

Charlie answered first, “Dean!?”

Then Gabe, “Hunter, I better be able to come check on my baby bro.”

“Gabe, Charlie, it’s me.”

 _Dean_. That’s his name. Something in Cas head clicked; a memory resurfaced. At least, the sound of Dean’s name from his lips echoed in his ears. He had told him his name... The rest was a blank. He huffed in annoyance.

“Cas, you’re ok.” They both sighed with relief.

“What happened?” He asked. As endearing it was to have people that cared about him, Dean was lying there a mere corpse in the bed.

Charlie sighed, it sounded like one of many, or maybe a yawn. Perhaps she hadn’t slept yet. How long had he been passed out?

“All I know is that you were hurt bad. Dean, well. Dean being the dumbass he is went all Tony Stark on your ass.”

“I don’t understand that reference.” Cas exhaled, rubbing the palm of his hand across his forehead.

“It means, Cassie, that Deano risked explosion to save you. I didn’t like the dick at first, but damn if his suicidal tendencies haven’t grown on me.”

“Gabriel,” He chastised, “Then what?”

“He clicked us off that’s what. I sent an old friend to check on you two... Apparently his apartment is in a state.”

“Yes, it looks as though there was a fire.” His nose scrunched up. “The smell is... Unpleasant.”

“That’s what happens. He is still asleep I take it?”

“Yes. How long have I been out?”

“2 days.”

There was silence across the line.

“Why are we in the same bed?”

Gabe snorted. “Trust Cassie to ask the important questions.”

“You were in the bed; he was on the floor when Bobby got there. He moved Dean beside you. If it bothers you, you can go. I was planning on getting Sa-“

“No. It’s alright. I will watch over him.”

“That was smooth Cassie. I’m sure Dean’s going to appreciate his own Florence.”

Cas let the air breeze past his lips. How many times does he have to tell Gabe he doesn’t understand his references? It has gotten worse since Dean joined in. Now he spends half the time being confused about what they say while Charlie laughs at his inferior knowledge in popular culture.  He licked his lips, eyes concernedly running over Dean’s prone form. “I’m going to hang up now.”

He placed the earpiece onto the floor beside him. It dropped dismally to the wooden boards, drawing Cas’ attention to Dean’s makeshift bedside table (it was just the floor). A collection of items were gathered there: an empty bottle of Jack Daniels, 3 bottles of pills, two empty burger wrappers and the TV remote. Interesting.

Cas turned back to Dean. His chest was rising and falling in uneven breaths. Carefully, Cas pulled back the covers to reveal his torso. Dean had been stabbed, that much Cas could remember.

The bruises on his skin mottled his chiseled body with shades of violet and black. There were the faint lines of something scrawled across his chest. More than that too though, it was almost a patchwork of scars and bruises and raised bone where there should be none. Goosebumps bloomed across his skin and Dean rolled over onto his side, face briefly contorting with pain.

His body hadn’t healed from Cas’ wounds.

“Dean.” The name fell brokenly from Cas’ lips. Drawing the covers back over him, Cas vowed to watch over him. To always watch over him.

His power was healing; he was so weak he hadn’t healed – he had saved Cas’ life in exchange for his own. Cas paused. Dean had mentioned something about Cas saving him before... He didn’t think that repayment was owed did he?

No of course not.

 

Body like lead, Dean crawled slowly into consciousness. Groggily, he blinked his eyes open.

“Well, I ain’t dead.” He concluded to himself, feeling the singe lingering beneath his skin and what felt like third degree burns on his hands. Even his tongue felt Sahara dry. And if he wasn’t dead, that means Cas is alive too. He went to fist bump the air but his arm barely made it off the bed.

Bed...

_Bed?_

Strenuously turning his head, he saw the mess of covers beside him; blood patches on the sheets. Thank God the ski manager didn’t come to check up on him, it looked as though they had re-enacted Chucky.

“Guess that means either Bobby or Sam came over.”

He tried to shift on the bed. Something in his stomach rolled.

“Oh shi-“

Dean collapsed out of bed and pathetically stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. He almost didn’t get the lid up before his stomach was emptying itself with a putrid splash. He was mostly dry heaving. This is disgusting, he thought between the cramps. Drained, he leant his arm across the cool porcelain, willing his legs to move.

When the muscles in his legs finally got the memo, he still needed the walls to carry him most of the way. His body folded in on itself, a constant reminiscent ache that clamped to his bones, and he was only half in his mind as he picked his ear piece from the floor.

“Hey Cas how is he?” Charlie picked up immediately. For a moment, Dean said nothing brain tripping over itself at the fact that Cas had been here. That Charlie expected him still to be here.

“Charlie.” He croaked out, unsure of what to say. His throat had an acidic burn and he looked longingly over to his kitchen and the tap that insistently dripped no matter what he did.

“Dean! You’re up! Well I mean obviously,” Babbling, he heard her hands flying across the keyboard and another joyous voice rang through the speaker.

“Deano, how’s it been sleeping beauty?” Dean could hear him chewing on something as he spoke and his stomach growled in protest.

“How long?” He asked instead.

“Cas was out for 2 days, you’ve been out for almost 4.”

4 days? A part of him was still mentally calculating where Cas was. And what he remembered. _Holy shit._ He kissed him.

Subconsciously he licked his lips. They tasted like sick. He grimaced.

“Dean?”

Right he was on the phone.

“Huh, what?”

“I said, Sam wants to come check on you, shall I tell him you’re up?”

He grimaced again. Not that he didn’t love his baby brother, because he was mad proud of his genius little bro, but he knew the conversation that was coming. And the bitchface that would accompany it... The last thing he wanted now was Sam criticising his life choices again.

“Maybe later.” He sighed. Since waking up, he hadn’t actually surveyed the damage. His face should remain permanently peeved. Everything in the vicinity of his charred body print, that’s actually quite cool, was blackened and burnt. For some strange reason it made him want write another song probably because it was oddly metaphorical for his life.

“When shall I send the fruit basket? And where’s Cassie at? I was expecting him to drag you away by now.”

Dean frowned. “He’s, er, not here?”

“Where the hell would he- oh. Ooooooh. Cassie you sly dog you.”

His head was starting to hurt; his hand came up to mindlessly rub near his black eye. _Fucking Alastair._ “Wanna clue me in?”

“No way, check you later Deano.”

“I’m glad you’re ok Dean, you scared the Smaug out of me.”

Laughing hurt the muscles in his ribcage, and yet, it was worth it. His hand fell down and trailed his bare chest. Honestly, he hadn’t even noticed that he only had an old pair of trackies on; his mental retention was starting to worry him. Which, like everything these days, brought him back to Cas.

People are affected differently by being brought back. Some still have scars, some get amnesia, some remember things they’d previously forgotten and Anna has told him that she received a scar once. So, he could only hope that either Cas didn’t remember or that he did and he is cool with it... Imagine that, Dean, more than partners in crime. Partners in everything and –

“Hello Dean.”

Even though he hurt, _everywhere_ , he pushed himself up on the balls of his feet and turned to face Cas who was standing in his kitchen. God help him and getting domesticated thoughts now.

“Hey Cas.” He looked him up and down, his tan trench coat still swaying from flight; his tie turned the wrong way round, his ever messy hair and stunning electric eyes. “Look at you, all suited up and back in the game.”

Cas looked down, checking himself, then back to Dean with a – fond? – smile and tilted head. Raising his hand in the air, he placed a bag on the counter.

“Your food stock is rather disquieting, so I went to the grocery store.” He began to rifle through the bags and Dean tried not to run over, pick him up and twirl him in the air. Having not written another song (yet) the only pay checks he has gotten in a week was from Bobby and that had to go on the rent. Part of him was relying on takeaway while the other half told him to get on with writing the song about Cas. A shiver went down his spine. Although a guy who hates chick flick moments, he has to admit, sappy sells.

Cas was looking at him uncertainly. Strange, Dean laughed beneath his breath as he crossed the small amount of flooring between the bedroom and kitchen; it was not a good look on him.

“I also brought...”

He broke eye contact Dean didn’t realise they were holding.

“Pie.”

Dean’s heart fluttered. His mouth hung agape as he closed the final space to grope at the packaging in the bag. Rubbing the back of his neck, shyly, Cas flustered his words, a slight blush spattering his cheeks.

“As a... Thank you. For saving my life. Dean.”

He was nearly shocked out of words. Not just pie, no way, but _pecan_ pie. “Cas, you are a man after my own heart!”

Ok, so he was being a bit dramatic (and he threw in a flirtation, sue him) but when it comes to pie, Dean knows no limits. Already brushing round Cas’ back to get two plates and a knife, he felt the residue of healing flaking away. He cut two slices and handed one to Cas, who was still standing at the breakfast bar and had not moved, except to face Dean, then went to lean against the counter and the sink.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime man.” He swallowed his first slice groaning at a) freaking _food_ ; it’s been what 2, maybe 3 days since he last ate and b) mother freaking pie. “This is a damn good pie, Cas.” Mumbling around his current mouthful, he grinned at Cas who was starting to eat his own piece.

“So, do you remember anything?” Dean scowled at the dishes in his sink as he added two more to the pile. It occurred to his absent mind that he was still shirtless. Just casually in his kitchen flaunting his scars in front of his partner. How distasteful would it be to dash out of the room to get a shirt?

Sighing, instead, he hopped his ass on the edge of the counter, facing Cas as he leant against the breakfast bar with his too attentive blue eyes. The soppy lyrics were almost falling out of every orifice he had, Jesus.

Cas squinted at him. “Only that you told me your name.”

Relief flooded his every pore, and a tinge of disappointment, but at least he hasn’t fucked the one good thing that he has left.

“S’not uncommon. Amnesia is a usual side effect of being healed.” He shrugged it off, however Cas was still staring at him. No longer in the eyes, just fixated on Dean in general. Following his gaze, Dean fell backwards into the sink with a, “Son of a bitch!” and a long string of curses following.

Tentatively, Cas stepped forward, placing his hand over what they were both looking at to help Dean back to the ground.

“How could that have-“

“Fuck.” He was putting all of his freak out in a box and letting the box sink to the bottom of the deepest part of his body. “It... erhm,” There is a scarred handprint on his bicep, near his shoulder. Cas’ freaking hand, is imprinted on his... He really needs a drink. “When I told you to fly here, you grabbed me. I was starting to go supernova. Happens sometimes.”

The warmth from Cas’ hand was seeping into his skin and making it increasingly more difficult to concentrate; Cas himself was plainly staring trance like at the point where their bodies met. “Cas man, personal space.”

Blinking out of his reverie, he stepped back. “My apologies.”

Dean laughed it off, trying to sound as casual as possible, because it never actually bothered him how close Cas and, by extension, Angel, always seemed to be. Fatigue was starting to slither through him again. He winced.

“I should leave. You need to rest. Is it alright if I come round tomorrow? To check on you, of course.”

Initiating the staring match this time, Dean blinked and smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time someone actually cared about his well-being. “Sure thing man, just pop in.”

Cas nodded, hesitating before turning around. “I’m pleased you’re not dead.”

He snorted, “Yeah, you too Mr Comatose.”

Cas smiled. A beautiful smile that crinkled around his eyes and showed too much gum. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Cya Cas.”

That was the other thing. The flutter of wings that will forever be associated with Cas/Angel, filled his ears. He had _seen_ Cas’ wings. They were, in short, fucking awesome. Huge and liquorice black; so soft looking and delicate. He would give anything to see them again without Cas being hurt. To just touch them, see what they really felt like.

Dean spent the next couple of hours sitting in front of his notepad, now shirted, with his sketchbook open beside him and guitar lying on top of his still bloody covers. He at least appreciated the frustration girls must go through. Tapping the pen against the sketch of the sigil that had been carved into Cas’ chest, he debated calling Bobby and heading over there tonight. It was obvious, if Sam hadn’t come over yet, that it had been Bobby who had sorted his near-dead ass out. Bobby is seriously _the_ man. He owed Bobby more thanks than his own father; they were practically the same thing now.

He didn’t call, in the end, because of a knock on his door and in the knowledge that it was his shift at the garage tomorrow; he figured he’d buy the old coot some beers on the way over.

Opening the door, he was swallowed into a moose sized embrace.

“Dean, you’re alright.”

He squirmed against his brother, trying his best not to show his discomfort.

“Course I am Sammy, takes more than a heal to take me down.”

Up until this point, he had tried not to think about chasing Cas’ light. It was different from every other time he’d done it. Most people’s light is faded and already wilting, but not Cas’. Strong and resilient and almost blinding as Dean had grabbed onto it and Cas had clutched him back. This man, this angel (pun so very much intended) was worth dying for. Not that he did.

“Where is he?” Sam was looking down at him, puppy features creased along his forehead and floppy hair. He’s going to make a fine parent one day, Dean chuckled to himself.

“Who?”

“The guy you almost got yourself killed for. Where is he?”

Dean frowned. This wasn’t going to turn into another lecture. “Cas went home. He’d been staying here to make sure I was alright.”

“How could you Dean? You could have died.”

Huffing a humourless laugh, he turned his back on his brother. The fading wisps of light shone through the burnt holes in his curtains. He didn’t really care if he had of died. In reality, all he does is cause trouble, start fights and get himself beat up. Of the people he does help, none of them are going to care when and if he bites the dust. Small mercies are great though, the last of his money from Ash went on restocking his liquor cabinet.

“How could I? Sam, I have risked more for strangers in the freaking street. If I want to give my life for someone I actually care about, I am going to damn well do it.”

“You care about him.” Sam’s voice softened slightly. Rolling his eyes, Dean faced him again. He might be the younger brother, but Sam should have dropped the kicked puppy look years ago. Alas, here he was staring at his gigantor brother, resolve crumbling at his expression.

“Yeah.”

“Like, Cassie Robinson care about him or,” Sam swallowed, “Or mom and dad care about him.”

“Jesus Christ Sam, it’s a little early for that. I mean, if anything happened to him, I’d probably react the same as Dad did...”

Silence stretched out between them.

“You gunna end up like Dad Dean? Cos he was such a great guy. Falling in love with a Super.”

Pointedly ignoring the big L word Sam chose to throw in there, Dean bristled. Their father, though absolutely shitty in every fatherly way possible, taught them to fight. To survive.

“Don’t talk shit about Dad Sammy, he tried. He did.”

“There you go, still defending him.”

“He was my hero when no one else was, Sam!”

Sam didn’t say anything for a beat. Nothing more than puffs of air hanging between them as they stood in Dean’s kitchen/bedroom.

“You are a better man than he ever was; I just want you to be safe.”

“No, you want me to stop hunting.”

Sam’s face scrunched up into bitchface #34. “To keep you safe.”

“Don’t you bitch face me Sam. I’ve got Angel now too, Cas, Charlie, Gabe. It’s my job.”

“Your job is at the garage! Or your music, what about that huh? I’m scared I’m gunna call you up one day and you’re not going to call back again.” His voice broke at the end.

“Sam,” Dean exhaled through his nose, bracing his hands on his gigantic brother’s shoulders. “This is... It’s who I am. And you’ve got that girl Jessie anyway, a real firecracker you chose yourself there. I can’t promise I’ll be safe, but you gotta remember Sammy...”

He looked into his brother’s eyes, a smile wondering up on his face.

“Who am I?”

Sam muttered something under his breath, a lopsided grin cracking his face as he looked up.

“I can’t hear you.”

“You’re batman, you jerk.”

They both laughed, tension splintering like chopping wood.

“Damn straight, bitch.”

They waited a few more moments, then Sam got a call.

He smiled, “Work.”

Dean punched him in the shoulder. “Go get ‘em tiger.”

Just as he was about to close the door on his brother, he turned back and gave him the younger brother smirk. “I wanna meet him.”

He left before Dean could indignantly squawk and blush and fluster. It gave Dean warmth, for once not smouldering, in his heart. The lyrics to the song poured out of him now, all at once into the scrawl across his page.

_I love that little bitch._


	8. The Power Of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Soooo..."
> 
> Cas squinted at Gabe from across the room.
> 
> "It's /that/ Dean Winchester."
> 
> "It appears so." He sighed. Everyone who was anyone heard of the boy who traded his life for his brother. However, Castiel or rather Angel had taken down Alastair's ring, inadvertently saving Dean. Who then went on to become Hunter.
> 
> Gabriel smiled, candy stuck in between his teeth in gooey fibers, "Small world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I profusely apologize for how long this took me to update, but I hope that the fact it is a bit longer than the others makes up for it umu
> 
> Unbated for now :3
> 
> Feedback would be great, thanks for the kudos and comments so far!
> 
> Muchos Loveos -xo

Strumming down the last G chord, Dean finished recording the last bar of the song. He took a minute just to sit in the reflective silence of how screwed he is. In reality, he has recorded a song (which in itself is incredibly chick flick) about his best friend; yeah he’s calling him that now, pretty much describing that he is silently pining to be with him... Definitely screwed.

He dragged his right hand raggedly down his face, his left holding half-heartedly to the neck of the guitar, and clicked send before he lost the balls to do it. Not even glancing at the screen he lowered the lid, scowling at the bright gleam taunting him, turning on the chair to lean the guitar beneath the window. Mould was accumulating at the corner and he glared at it too, hoping that his gaze alone would make it disappear.

After a few solid seconds of staring at mould, he flicked his eyes up to look out the window. The deep blue of the night sky was lit up with stars like fairy lights across the city that shone brighter the further he looked, but was superimposed by skyscrapers and rich apartment blocks. He frowned. What time even was it?

Reluctantly, he swiveled the chair back to his laptop. He lifted the lid and the screen brightened again.

3:23

He _should_ sleep; however the Irish coffee (a shot of whiskey was involved) he’d downed a few hours previous made him feel a buzz beneath his skin. Swearing to himself, he leaned forward to double check that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. The news tab, that is permanently open in his browser, caught his eye. There was a man in the picture, one he was sure he recognised, looking down and handcuffed, with that smug asshat Zachariah beside him. He was so focused on the screen, when his phone blared Asia’s ‘Heat of the Moment’ his reflex reaction sent him jumping to his feet, knocking his knees with a crack against the desk and landing him in a pile on the floor next to it. Nursing the surely forming bruise on the joints, he pressed accept.

“Who’s the lucky girl then?” Ash demanded, cutting him off before he even started speaking.

“Ash, the fuck you doing up man?”

“Nuh-uh-uh Winchester. Dr Badass doesn’t sleep, I am eternal. Now, stop avoiding the question.”  

“It’s not a girl.” He mumbled blushing despite being alone, as he idly traced the cracks in the ceiling.

“So it’s a guuuy.”

“Ash if you tell Jo I swear to Go-“

“Cool it Winchester, you know I don’t care. I just wanted to know who the song was about, rather than you doing what normal dudes do, like tell the person.”

He laughed, tension bleeding away from him, although Ash does have a point. “Like you and Jo?”

“Shut up dude, she wants me... I just haven’t asked her yet.”

“Sure thing, man.” Forcing himself to sit up, he winced at the still tender pull at his abdomen. “Well, I gotta go.”

“Listen out for it cos ‘4 am’ is gunna be played for the 9 am start of the show. Seriously, think about telling him dude.”

“Mhmm.”

Dean clicked Ash off. The guy is a madman, his hair evidence enough to state his point, but he’s also a genius. Which got him thinking, what were the chances of it working out between him and Cas? Theoretically, the only problem would be in keeping their identities private... No.

There is no theoretically. There is no probably. What would a gentleman like Castiel see in a grunt like him? Nothing, that’s what.

He’s a leaf on the wind. You notice it because it passes you by, but you don’t look for it once it’s gone.

That’s ignoring all of his character flaws. He used to be a womaniser, he’s often described as a drunk and he has gotten everyone he ever loved, killed or put them in danger. Inside, he’s broken. It’s dark and lonely in there, a bottomless chasm of worthlessness; sometimes he has to remind himself that he’s the _good_ guy. For so often, he’s played both roles. It’s no longer ambiguous. Each person he saves can never account for those he put in harms way.

He has to save all of them.

Fighting himself is harder than that though, because he’s weak. He’s a sad, needy and, if he holds back his demons and stops drinking long enough for the haze to clear, scared little boy inside. He wants to be good, to _do_ good. Except, every time he tries to do the right thing, he ends up dragging everyone through the mud with him; he doesn’t mind going down, hell, he had accepted it in order to save Cas, but the physical guilt that drags it’s blackened claws across his soul stops him in his tracks.

He drew in a ragged breath. It’s too early for this shit. Pulling himself up, the pain in his body swallowed by the gaping hole in his heart, he walked in a daze across the cold concrete floor to the kitchen. He grasped the bottle of brandy, downing its contents in a swift motion, and then placed it back on the counter with a haggard exhale. The burn swirled in his gut, the sharp scent lingering against the surface of his tongue as he breathed. Closing his eyes, he counted to 10. The thoughts retreated beneath the warmth flooding his system.

When he opened his eyes, he felt minutely better. He decided to ignore the faint feeling of stinging in his eyes and got his phone back out of his pocket. No missed calls, no messages, no emails. He didn’t even have his network provider checking up on him.

And if that doesn’t do a number on his self worth, nothing will.

Exhaling a breathless laugh, he crossed the kitchen to the bowl on the counter that held his keys, dragging his Dad’s old leather jacket from the sofa and allowing the heavy weight to settle on his shoulders. He paused at the fridge, opening it and taking one of the 6 packs of beers from the shelf. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to offer.

At least the Impala had never let him down, not since he can ever remember, and he has the ability to fix her if anything ever went wrong. Life would be a Hell of a lot easier if he could sort the world, maybe even his life, with some classic rock on the radio and a toolbox in his hand.

The drive over to Bobby’s was blissfully quiet. While the city slept beneath the lazy glow of the fading night, he drove the barely awakening streets only filled with the occasional car or truck. Continuing to meander through the roads, listening to the purr of her engine, he made his way to the outskirts; along the dirt track that lead to Bobby’s salvage yard.

Bobby’s house is the focal point for the orbiting columns of cars that surround it. He loves it here, the hint of rust that lingers in the air, the shadows of forgotten models left to age imperfectly around a man who is made from the same hard materials, but curved (to those who can truly appreciate) into smooth edges or sharp angels. The only regret Dean has is that Karen died and Bobby was left to pick up the mess John made and help hold up Sammy’s bright dreams.

He’s done so much for Dean over the years, he thought guiltily as he cut the engine and climbed out of Baby. Now more than ever he wished he had more to give him than alcohol. Nevertheless, through it they try to make up for the horrors, to pretend they don’t exist. So that when they close their eyes, they can drown it out; Bobby is no different when it comes to coping... He may handle it a little better than Dean. Ok, a lot better.

Hopping up the wooden steps, Dean rapped on the door to Bobby’s. The sun was just starting to peek over the line of old junkers in his yard, marking the miracle that was the fact that he was out of his flat. The scrap metal littered the grounds around Bobby’s house, a graveyard of cars begging to be remade. His fingers itch at the prospect – since becoming a full time(ish) Super he hasn’t worked on another car except Baby or at the shop. He sighs, hearing Bobby’s grumble as his footsteps rumble through the rickety foundations.

“Hello boy, didn’t actually think you’d make it here before sunrise.” His tone is gruff, but Bobby-style affectionate, welcoming Dean inside with a weary glance to the 6 pack of beers in his hand.

“What can I say Bobby, I’m excited to see you.”

That successfully earned him a raise of eyebrows.

“What?!” They smiled at one another, Bobby pulling Dean into a hug, finally showing the extent of his fears that Dean had actually come pretty damn close staying dead, “Take your damn beer and let me see the books old man.”

He groused a final, “Idjit,” though he took the beers without protest. Dean followed him through into the main room, Bobby’s desk facing the shelves that were overflowing with books, leaking out to any surface till there were stacks on the tables and desks too. Quickly setting to work, Dean went straight to the shelf that he knew the symbol texts were on. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the empty bottles of bourbon strewn around the room.

“What’s the deal with the liquor store Bobby?”

“Last few days hadn’t been easy.”

Dean held his gaze. Sometimes the shock to his system comes in that, yeah, someone actually cares.

“Right.”

He unfolded the scrap of paper that he’d drawn the sigil on and tried to memorise the pattern.  Flipping through the book, he began skimming across the words and intricate symbols on the pages.   

“You know your brother was dodging my calls still?” Bobby asked, tension caught in the crease of his brow and the tilt of his hat. Dean looked up from the page he was reading.

“S’not fair of him. Hard to believe he takes the ‘town drunk’ thing to heart, after everything...” He broke off, closing the book and moving to hunt in the dust covered volumes, while Bobby grunted a noise of agreement.

“You wanna clue me in on what you’re looking for?”

Without breaking concentration, he murmured under his breath the words on the page, “Gotta find the... _Enochian, ancient language of Angels_ – symbol.”

“You know, Sam was always into the research, not you. What’s got your panties in a bunch all of a sudden?”

Dean silently beckoned him over, tapping the paper while continuing to scrutinise the text in front of him. There was a lot of information here and he didn’t like the look of any of it. It showed a mixture of Abyssal and Supernal languages, mixed with broken Enochian. From what he was grasping, without even identifying the sigil, the basis of what Alastair was trying to do had something with _removing_ the powers from the person. Powers are the equivalent of energy, however, and they can neither be created nor destroyed only transferred. More questions without answers.

“What’s that s’posed to be? Your 5th grade art project?”

Rolling his eyes, he shot Bobby a lighthearted glare. “Oh ha-ha. It was carved into Angel’s chest, a little over my skill range.”

“That the boy you had in your bed?”

Dean blushed hard. He felt it bloom up his neck and emblazon his freckles against his face.

“Yeah Bobby, that’s him.”

Pointing at the musty paper (emphasising the importance to himself further), he turned on his heel and strode over to Bobby’s desk. He knew Bobby had been looking at symbology a few weeks ago if only he could find the-

Yes! Victoriously moving the book back over to where he had positioned himself, he ran his hands along the crumpled paper in an attempt to flatten it.

Bobby opted for interested, but distant, silence, going to his desk to scan a few pages with a can of beer in his hand; Dean could occasionally feel his gaze fall upon him though he was too engrossed in his research to pay any notice.

4 books down, 3 beers each and a mini argument later and he finally had it.

The circle, with a disfigured G shape, bordered by letters, was the banishing sigil. It literally removed the powers from the person if drawn correctly and with the right incantation.

“Shit.” Leaning back, Dean rubbed his eyes. He felt additionally tired from staring at words for too long and not sleeping for an indeterminate amount of time. Although, having done time vaguely similar to Captain America ‘as a popsicle’, he was relieved to be on his feet again.

“What did you find?”

“It’s a... Expulsion spell of sorts. Says here that the powers can be removed from a ‘vessel’ and sent somewhere. I presume Alastair was going to try and, I dunno, absorb Cas’ power for himself?”

“Balls.”

He huffed agreement. For the second time that day, he closed his eyes and tried to force the bile that was creeping up his throat. What would have happened if he had been too late? Cas would have lost everything – it would have been Dean’s fault. Something wasn’t adding up though; Alastair is a snake, that much is for sure, but he isn’t into this sort of thing for himself. He tortures for the sheer _pleasure_ of it. No, whatever is going on here, it’s bigger than Alastair.

“I oughta go tell Cas.” Gathering the book and papers into his arms, he shot Bobby a grateful look. He slowly stepped over the mess on the floor, trying not to jostle the precariously positioned objects. Bobby held the door open for him, giving his shoulder a squeeze on the way out; at the same time, giving him the signature Singer Glare.

“You just be careful boy.”

“Aren’t I always?” He had his back turned, though he didn’t need to use his imagination for the eye roll and disapproving look on Bobby’s face.

“No, you always end up doing something stupid, idjit.”

Dean didn’t dwell on the up rise of truth in those words, managing with the tips of his fingers to open the door, and then hook his foot in the gap to dump the manuscripts in the back of the Impala. Clipping the headset onto his ear, he slid into the front seat and gave a short wave to Bobby. He dialed his 3 comrades, hoping to brief them on what he’d found before heading over to Cake-a Erotica.

 

Cas greeted Dean as he pulled up outside, flitting down to take the hardbacks and transcripts and transport them immediately to the 10th floor where he and Gabe were testing out the new technology that had been developed. He then proceeded to fly Dean up there, much to the man’s obvious disdain, not realising once they had landed how close they were standing. It never occurred to him, therefore it didn’t bother him, that people had personal space issues. Nevertheless, Dean didn’t choose to immediately step back.

“What have you found, Dean?”

Finding himself trapped in those emerald, impossibly green irises, they held each others gaze as Dean explained about the sigil. It equally horrified and worried him; as Dean had suggested, based on some level of intuition and personal experience of which he would _not_ divulge (despite Cas asking) there had to be a bigger picture that they were missing.

Gabe pulled up the internet to do more research on how powerful the symbol was and if it had ever been done before. Meanwhile, Dean lit up, his face bright and mischievous at the prospect of being able to try out some of the new tech. Cas wished he had a camera for that moment, the pure look of childlike innocence that refreshed his face and wiped away the constant pull of the world on his shoulders.

Alas, it also led them into more personal conversation. He learnt that Dean had a brother, Sam, he already knew but the point is Dean _chose_ to tell him. As if he hadn’t already figured, Dean likes classic rock and muscle cars, works as a mechanic part time and did in fact have close ties to the Roadhouse.

He did, however, find it completely unacceptable that Cas had never seen a Star Wars movie. It was at this moment, Cas came to fully comprehend, that he and Dean were not just partners on a job, nor friends outside of work, but something far more... Profound.

This conversation went on to show up Cas’ inferior pop culture knowledge, Gabriel’s prankentatious (Dean labelled it so) nature and how they would compile a list of must see movie franchises, TV shows, books and more that together he and Cas would have to fulfill.

Warmth adorned Cas’ heart, the prospect of working with and seeing more of Dean in the future was something he could get used to.

If only it were to last.


	9. My Sunday Nights Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can't heal terminal diseases; he still doesn't know why. He doesn't understand why there is a limitation on his power, but, whilst he can, he will help in every other way possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely a filler, i won't bullshit you guys. I did also want to show a bit more to Dean's character and it occurred to me that if he could heal, why wouldn't he be doing this stuff. So i guess i'm reassuring myself of his character in this chapter? 
> 
> \--- i don't own anything, the characters etc, just plot ---
> 
> Mainly angst, nat a lat of destielish stuff. More incoming next chapter tho ((((:

Times with Cas... They’re starting to become the things he pushes a little harder to get to. It’s their down time; while at night they apprehend the bad guys, after their day jobs (who knew Cas was literally living up to the holy tax accountant vibe) they meet up. Gabe is there too, but he mostly leaves them to it.

It’s fair to say that the technology floor at Cake-a Erotica is quickly becoming his favourite place. Better than the Roadhouse... Better than _Bobby’s_. Jesus.

The room is just one massive expanse and he feels like Batman and Gabe’s Alfred and-

That would make Cas Catwoman. Or would he be Catwoman ‘cos technically it is Cas’ brother’s building? Fuck! He shouldn’t even be thinking this.

Anyway, the point is that the stuff there is awesome. There’s this car, that uses memory alloys, which means you can dent the thing, press a button and the electrical current acts as an external force ‘popping’ the dent back out. Freaking awesome.

Then there’s the headset, you put it on and it’s like augmented reality. He can tell that it was solely Gabe’s input, at least it was that or he pranked him – his powers means he can alter reality, brilliant – and Dean had seen himself die 100 different times.

So many things that Dean never fathomed in his wildest dreams to witness let alone play on, and, being the self made Super he is, he actually had some tricks to show the billionaire philanthropists. He remade his scrambler, from an old radio, phone and superglue. Then he showed them how to make a listening device from an old nokia, and told them how he’d once made a fake bomb to get himself out of jail using an old action figure, some wires, a pipe and chemical fertiliser when he was just 15.

Thinking about it, pealing his sweat clad suit from his clammy skin, it was more than a job, it was good company. He had friends! He snorted to himself. Dean Winchester doesn’t make friends. He has one night stands, acquaintances, _had_ friends. Those were either from the many cities they passed through or were friends of John. No, it was fair to say that for his alright looks, looking past his dick attitude, and charm, he wasn’t social. Sam got all the people skills and look at him now: a damn fine lawyer.

 

It was a Sunday night. Sunday nights were very important to him. He greatly anticipated them as each week turned into the next. No matter how shitty his week could be, torturous or idle; Sundays could uplift him and remind him that a part of him was human. Shaking his head with a self depreciative sigh, he chuckled at his own joke. He was trying to make up for the Hell bound soul nurturing in his chest like a parasite, appealling to his own humanity.

Thankfully, this wasn’t actually about him. He crossed the room to the chest of drawers that the TV rested on and pulled open the top left draw. The drag of wood sounded like a cracking echo in the silence of his flat. Charlie, the little sister he never wanted just as much as the handler that daily saves his ass, is his regular cosplay buddy. This drawer contains evidence of their last escapade, she’s the _Queen_ of Moordor and he is her knight. They still joke about it sometimes, in the lull before another job, and he will call her Majesty and for a second, they are just two nerds having a laugh.

But that’s not the costume he reaches for.

Instead, he grabs the black cotton and hard body armour and heads to the shower. It’s quick, not enjoyable, simple a wash away of the grime of the monsters he fought tonight. Drying himself quickly, he pulls the black pants on and black top, the armour settling heavy over his chest. Then, to complete his look, he puts the mask on. He stares at his reflection.

“I am Batman.”

He drives leisurely the calm evening streets, pulling up a block or so away from the hospital. Stepping into the cool evening air, the feeling of the purr of Baby’s engine reverberating from his fingers lessening, he skulks in the shadows. It is easy enough, at night time, to infiltrate the hospital wards; he’s done it so many times now he kind of feels like it’s his 4th job.

The one and only time he ever read an article about himself, back when he was no more than a Robin wanna-be, he had been undermined with harsh words and infuriated accusations. If he was a healing Super, why wasn’t he helping all the people in hospitals? Why wasn’t he curing cancer? _Why_ aren’t they experimenting on him, finding the genes for his powers and exploiting them in the medical industry?

All very good questions, he muses, leaping from a garbage bin to the fire escape frames that cling to the side of the houses. He learnt the hard way that diseases could not be healed. He’d tried.  For John.

Infuriatingly, they had been in the car on the way to another clinic when the truck totalled them. Dean once again let his father down. John had liver failure, a combination of drinking at all hours a day (it had started to be more of a miracle to see his father sober) and overexerting himself that lead to his demise. And Dean couldn’t save him.

He breathed heavily through his nose at the memory. So yeah, he can’t solve all of humanities problems, though he is determined to try.

Gracefully dropping down to land at the side of the hospital, shrouded in murky shadows and screaming sirens, he picks the lock of the side door. It is usually reserved for nurses, but a locked door is probably the last thing on Earth that could stop him. The bright glare of hospital lights assault his eyes and it takes a few seconds for him to adjust from the darkness.

Dean navigates quickly, finding the children’s ward dark, mostly empty, the desk nurse studiously tapping away at her computer. Moving with the darkness, he makes his way into the first room.

He winces. It probably looks pervy, but his intentions are the exact opposite. It is because of the reaction he knows he will receive that he comes at night; he can’t risk his identity with complacency. For every person you save, there are 2 questioning your every motive. He’s trying to help. Make what difference he can.

Sneaking into the first room, the machine bleeps in the silence. The child is asleep, though startles at his entrance. Dean smiles reassuringly as the child gasps into consciousness.

“ _Batman?!_ ” They whisper in suppressed excitement. He smiles, nods and presses a finger to his lips to tell them to be quiet. All the tubes surrounding their body hinder their movement, but it doesn’t stop them strenuously sitting up and reaching forward.

 “What’s your name, kid?” He smiles, not gruffing his voice to the ridiculous level of the movies. Cas could probably do an amazing Batman voice. Maybe Angel is his Batman.

The boy swallows, suddenly nervous, “Lucas.”

“What happened to you Luke?”

“I... f-f-fell in the w-water,” He says quietly, unsure of his words.

“I can heal you, would you like that?”

The boy looks up, hope blooming in the darkness of his eyes, long hair covering his face. He looks a little bit like Sammy when he was younger, Dean laughs to himself.

“You w-would do that?”

Cautiously, mindful of the nurse nearby, he offers his hand to Luke’s own. He hesitates at first, then gingerly places it in Dean’s palm. It’s so frail, delicate, the child withering away beneath the force of pneumonia.

“Course! But you gotta stick around till the doc comes to check on you, alright?”

He pauses, glancing up to meet Dean’s eyes. They fall into silence. “Ok.”

“My hands are gunna light up, ok buddy? Then I’m going to take the pain away.”

The boy nods, his gaze transfixed at Dean’s hands. Rolling his shoulders gently, he lets the power emblazon his fingers. The glow lights up the boys face as he gasps, hand tightening to Dean’s. A sudden chill sweeps through Dean. He cringes, allowing more of his powers to siphon in. After a few moments, it draws back and the boy exhales a low breath.

“Thanks Batman.”

By the time he says it, Dean’s already moved on.

And so it continues, until the sun peaks through the windows, catching him in the act.

Finally falling into his bed, daylight overtaking the night hours ago, he feels like he has made a difference. To those children, he has changed their lives; maybe even rekindled dreams.

It doesn’t stop the night(day)mares that plagues his mind, but it allows him at most to smile through the pain.


	10. Something's Not Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is definitely a pattern here somewhere. Hunting demons shouldn't be this easy... Should it?
> 
> I mean, him and Cas, they're badass, yeah... 
> 
> But something's not right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I GOT A CHAPTER UP EARLY :D BUT SORRY IT'S TAKEN SO LONG
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I love reading your comments umu
> 
> Apologies for mistakes and enjoy :3

Dean’s been upgraded on his clearance into Cas’ building. He doesn’t have to walk through the huge lobby, wait to go through security, stand in a crowded lift (it’s like the place never sleeps) and crusade across the many floors to locate where Cas is holed up next – yeah. He’s pretty fucking glad he gets to use the private entrance now.

Humming ‘Little Lion Man’, he closes the door gently. There’s normally a guy sitting behind the only desk who, for some reason, feels it necessary to crack inappropriate jokes on some occasions and completely ignore Dean’s existence except to press the button for the elevator on others. It’s like the building runs on candy and schizophrenia.

The guy is there, feet kicked up on his desk. Balthazar, that’s what he found out his name was, was in actual fact the company larcenist. That is an actual job. For real. He gets paid and everything. With a shake of his head, he reaches the elevator doors and waits for him to press the button. After a good minute staring at the steel doors, he turns to Baltha-douche and clears his throat.

“Hey.”

“I said hey!”

Out of nowhere there was a voice behind him, “You did. Twice. Congratulations.”

He did not jump. Nope. Ok, maybe a little.

Facing Balthazar, his head switched between the perfect copy, still propped up behind the desk, and the smug man leaning on the wall. He pushed himself off, snapping his fingers and the apparition of his twin disappeared. 

“I thought Gabe was the only one with the reality warping bullshit.”

Balthazar exhaled an exasperated sigh, “He is. But I use the dummy as a back up to invisibility. Though it is not as spectacular as Gabe’s.” He was twirling some sort of stick in his hand.

“Awesome. You gunna let me up now?”

“Bossy. I can see why Cassie likes you.”

Instead of replying with a snarky comment that, frankly, died in his throat, he snorted and rolled his eyes as the door finally opened. Waving sardonically to Balthy’s already reoccupied form, he pressed the button to the 18th floor and closed his eyes. It was supposed to be the beginning of the Star Wars marathon tonight.

Turns out, the world had other plans for them.

“Hey Cas.” He’s sat on the sofa, looking like he wants it to swallow him whole rather than look at Gabe. He waves at Gabe who is ankle deep in candy wrappers by his computer.

“Hello Dean.”

Clapping him over the shoulder, he takes a seat to Cas’ left on the plush sofa. The room’s TV takes up the expanse of a wall (bigger than those you get in Cinemas even) and the surround sound makes it pure heaven to watch movies in. Die Hard last week had been a life changing experience. It is fair to say that his $200 box and free view channels were pathetic and lowly in comparison.

“So you ready to board the Death Star, young Skywalker?”

“He looks more like Chewbacca to me Deano.” Gabe strode over. This can’t be good. “And I’m afraid kiddos; movie night’s been called off. Duty calls.”

Dean’s body physically recoiled with the disappointed moan that left his mouth. “Not one night? Wouldn’t have to even do this if you had properly educated your brother.”

“Hey, you try growing up with him. For the number of books he read, not _once_ did he go near porn.”

Cas’ face, comically, scrunched up; he placed the mask over his head. “How does everything relate back to porn with you, Gabriel?”

“Did I mention porn? Man I need to get laid.”

Hurriedly flapping his hands, in a desperate attempt to avoid this conversation, Dean motioned to Cas to go. “Don’t need the mental scarring, thanks Gabe. Cas, I need to stop by mine to get my suit,” He eyed Gabe, “You and Charlie can fill us in on the way.”

Cas nodded and one moment he’s looking at Gabe’s manically grinning face, the next he’s standing in front of that depressing TV set.

He removes his suit from the top draw, peeling his shirt from his torso and pulling on the black top. Losing the trousers he drags on the black replacements, the gun metal hoodie and finally black bandana. He does all this; he stops. Slowly, he turns, seeing Cas standing in the opposite side of the room, looking positively caught. Caught? Right yes, because Dean had just stripped and it was painfully obvious that Cas had tuned in for the tease. He cleared his throat, strapping the ear piece on.

“Char, what you got for us?”

Cas is still looking at him with an odd expression on his face. Their gazes lock and Cas strides over, all purpose and business, rigid, clamping his hand on Dean’s shoulder, barely shy of painfully.

“There’s going to be a bank robbery. Downtown, 888 S Figueroa St.”

Wings flutter and they’re shrouded in the shadows formed by the street lights outside peaking through the windows in the lobby. The marble floor clicks as Cas crosses it, his head minutely twitching to the left and right in a military style sweep of the area.

Dean does the same, in the opposite direction, leaving Cas at the main desk and going to check the safety deposit boxes. He can feel the eye of the camera, sweeping across. For the moment, though, there are no signs of a heist.

Three things happen at once: someone drops down behind Dean, he hears a clatter from the lobby and the alarm goes off. It is not going to be his night.

Twisting round, he punches the assailant in the face. They recoil, Dean making a grab for their throat, before launching their hands in a wringing motion in his direction. He gasps, lungs constricting beneath his chest, unable to do anything more than try to take in stuttered breaths. Heart pumping furiously in his chest he snarls, reaching across the distance to wrap his hands around the Demons neck. It’s a game of cat and mouse. Black slithers into the corner of his vision, heart palpitating at a rate no longer viable, his legs start to weaken. The corners of his blunt nails dig in and, at last, the Demon realises (too late) that he has his fingers locked into a pressure point.

The Demon screams. Dean’s lung burst open, greedily gulping air as he collapses, with the now unconscious attacker, to his knees. He ties their wrists, swiftly but efficiently.

In seconds, his vision stops spinning and he’s running back through the lobby, panting. He looks around. There is no one else there. It’s quiet – too quiet. He’s alone. _Where the Hell is Cas?_

“Dean!”

He turns, in time to dodge the person sized blob that dropped from the ceiling. The person groans at the impact of the solid ground and not Dean. He stands over them, securing their hands before facing Cas. He has three people tied up behind him.

“Damn Cas. You sure remembered to eat your wheeties this morning.” He whistles low, then remembers, belatedly, that the familiar song of sirens is calling from outside. Cas is giving him a perplexed look, squinting slightly, but shrugs it off to touch Dean’s forehead.

Now they’re standing in a dingy alley. It smells like a toilet and, based on mystery substance on the ground next to them, this probably _is_ someone’s toilet. He shuffles, waiting for Charlie or Gabe to elaborate on what the job is, kicking the discarded KFC wrapper in Cas’ general direction.

“Assault. Multiple attackers.” Charlie’s voice crackles over. It must be a slow night, for Gabe hasn’t come in with any hunts as of yet.

Sure enough, after a few terse minutes of the ‘How much rubbish can I surround Cas in before he notices’ game, someone bursts out of a backdoor into the alley. Light floods in, illuminating his panicked face, flushed with a clear sheen of sweat. The chubby guy runs in the opposite way to where he and Cas are waiting.

He shouts, a surprisingly mouse – or pig – like squeal because he is surrounded, 2 on either side, by darkly dressed figures. The first punch is about to be landed when Cas flits them the not even 6 metre distance so that they are between the man and the attackers.

The Demons don’t look impressed. Or, he presumes as much, as the one who was going to piñata the poor guy lowers their fist. They don’t give in though, swinging to clock Cas in the stomach and Dean in the throat. It’s a far less intense fight; they don’t seem particularly into it.

“Stop.” Is all Cas says and they do, which throws Dean completely off guard, turning around with their hands behind their backs.

“Uhh.” Dean stammers, unintelligibly, but ties their hands with cables ties in a numb trance. This was too easy... Wasn’t it? I mean, it’s not like him and Cas are so badass now, that they have torn the heart and spirit from the Demons in the middle of their crime. Is it?

The guy between them stops wincing and exhales a breath that ripples his flabby cheeks. He thanks them, profusely, calling the cops just as they are leaving.

“That was weird.” Dean says immediately, at the same time as Cas says, “That was suspicious.”

Cas sighs, “Indeed.”

“Alright guys, who’s up for taking out a really, _really_ , like Voldermort level, douchey Demon?”

 “No fair, how do you always find all the good ones?” Gabe’s grouchy tone whined; childlike, through the ear piece.

“Can you just give us the location?” Dean conceded. It was well past 2 am and he’d like to go home at some point, you know, after they’ve stopped all the evil for one night. He needs his four hours, at least.

“Burbank. More specifically, Glenoaks Boulevard. You’re looking for a woman, mid 30’s, red hair. She’s going to jump in front of a truck.”

“Erh, not that I’m against saving a life,” Cas transports them to the road. It isn’t overly busy, but the truckers that use these roads are already filtering through. “But this isn’t exactly our... forte.”

“It’s a Demon, Deano. Using telekinesis to cash in on life insurances.”

“What an assbutt.”

Dean glances away from the road to stare at Cas incredulously. “Assbutt?”

Cas just shrugs.

“So how is he gunna do it? He has to keep eye contact right-“

“Dean I see her.” He flies them near to a woman. Her hair is crazed and curly, red fire zinging out from her pale face. Eyes withdrawn and heavy, she stares out, glazed over with an inhuman separation.

Checking around them, Dean seeks out the person behind this. They have to be close by, there’s no way of controlling her movements otherwise. She takes the first step.

“Shit, I got nothing. Cas can you see them?”

Cas isn’t beside him. He’s flitting, randomly along the street. The woman takes another step.

“Worse case scenario, I jump in there.” He says to himself more than anyone else. He’s scanning back across the street when he seems him. Leering behind a car, with a wicked smirk on his face, his eyes black like the night sky, never breaking his eye contact with the woman.

“Cas I see him!” Cas’ head whips round, following his line of sight. Dean runs to the woman, pulling her away from the road. She’s confused, obviously, dazed and rapidly swats him away from her. So much for gratefulness. Instead, he crosses back over the road to Cas and the Demon, expecting a fight, when he gets there though, the guy is already in cuffs.

He raises an eyebrow at Cas, who was phoning the police.

“Something is seriously wrong here.”

“Agreed.”

They decide that they will meet up; Dean’s going to miss work, to try to piece together what’s going on in the criminal community and what the possible end game is. It should not be this easy to apprehend the suspects. It has _never_ been this easy. Cas drops Dean to his flat, and, (probably due to the events earlier) left straight after. He couldn’t be bothered to shower, too many thoughts and worries in turmoil in his head.

Finally stripped from his suit, (which was in desperate need of patching), he stood at the end of his bed, face scrunched up in exasperation. Though the char marks were gone, even his epic body print has been cleaned away, the room still felt bleak. Empty. Like someone hand burnt a part of his warm atmosphere along with it.

He also needs to buy new curtains. Sighing, he lackadaisically shoves the burger wrappers from the side of his bed and flops down, flinging an arm over his face in a weak attempt to block out the somehow vivid light from the stars at 5 am. Intense, like each burning ball of gas has a personal vendetta against his fatigued body. With a groan, he rolls face first into the pillow; he tries to force his over active brain to shut the hell up already. He’s just in the space between drowsiness and sleep-

_NA NA NA NA NA NA_

“What the hell?” Throwing himself over, he clumsily catches the phone in his hand and presses the button. This is his other, other cell; designated for family only. Which is why, for all logical reasons, he thought it was his moose of his brother calling.

“Sammy, the fuck you doing up man?”

“Winchester, how lovely it is to hear your voice.”

He sits, bolt upright, in his bed.

“Crowley! You son of a bitch, how did you get this number?”

“Cracking out the pleasantries already, my god, you must have missed me.”

“Can it, Crowley. What the hell do you want?” He rubs his free hand over his face, wordlessly miming strangling the British bastard.

“Can’t a guy call to check in on his favourite moose and squirrel?”

Dean remained silent.

“No, of course not. As a matter of fact, I’ve called you with a business proposition.”

Snorting, Dean leant back on the edge of the windowsill. It was uncomfortable, but that’s the vibe Crowley gives off. “Yeah, not interested.”

“Wait, you bloody moron.” He pauses, collecting himself (Dean thinks smugly) in a way that only Dean seems to be able to fluster his impeccable business manner. “I know you’ve been rounding up lots of... Demons.”

“You gunna bribe me to hold off? Sorry, no sale.”

“Are you incapable for shutting up for 2 seconds!?”

Dean’s mouth clicked shut. Really, he didn’t know why he was even humouring Crowley.

“Right. So a lot of my lot have been getting arrested. Damn traitors. There’s a pattern. Please tell me you’ve noticed.”

“Traitors? Yeah, it’s been getting easier to catch ‘em, but I like to think it’s because of my strength of character.”

“Your strength of character couldn’t charm a worm out of its hole. Now the point of this is, well, loyalties have been divided. I’m not overly thrilled about discussing this over the phone, could we possibly arrange a meet? I promise to make it worth your while.”

He blew his breath out of his nose. On one hand, Crowley is a slimy asshat, who, in every way imaginable, deserves to be locked up as much as any other bad guy. He sighs again. On the other hand, his information is almost always good. Or bad: depending on your perspective.

“Fine. What time?”

“How does now sound? In the usual place of course.”

“Now?!” He grunted, rolling his legs off the side of the bed and yawning.

“See you soon, squirrel.”

Quickly standing up, he balled his hands into fists, angrily pretending to throw the phone at the wall before it dropping, hard, onto his bed.

“Great, just friggin’ peachy.” He muttered to himself, throwing on a pair of jeans that were discarded on the floor, then checking his grey shirt and pulling on a red flannel. He was about to wrench open his door, when, suddenly, he stops. What is he supposed to do about Cas? Should he call Charlie, in case Crowley pulls a Crowley and things go to Hell? A part of him knows he should, the part that is still trying to redeem a black soul. Shaking his head, he resigns himself to his fate.

If it turns out to be nothing, at least he wouldn’t waste everyone’s time in checking it out.

Baby purrs as he turns down the first street; he has the heater on full due to the crap weather that’s sunken into the city. It’s all cloud and darkness, a chill that seeps into the cracks of windows and seams of doors.

“Where are you going?”

“Son of a-“ Swerving wildly, he narrowly misses a traffic light before skidding to a stop. He bangs his hand against the steering wheel and turns to glare at the person he knows is there. Knows, but doesn’t want to believe. _How the hell, is he fucking stalking me or something?_ “You scared the shit outta me Cas!”

“My apologies.”

An awkward silence settles around them. It isn’t the sound they normally have, it’s stilted and forced. Things that are not being said by either party – when did they start staring at each other? The whole time, they do not break eye contact. Cas looks away, then back. His hair looks impossibly more rumpled, his tie, turned backwards in his obvious haste to tail Dean.

“Why are you meeting with Crowley?”

“Wow, there really isn’t anything you don’t know.”

Cas doesn’t even exhale. Doesn’t even _blink_. It’s Dean who has to look away this time.

“Information. Crowley arranged a meet, he knows something is going on with the Demons and wants to show and tell.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” It’s so low, it’s almost a growl. Cas looks hurt, pained, but also like he’s about to explode – Dean doesn’t truly understand why he’s so riled up about this. If he was still working solo, he wouldn’t have called anyone. That’s just it, though. He isn’t working solo; he has a partner now. Guilt tears into his gut and knots his stomach. God, he wishes he hadn’t pissed Cas off.

“Look man-“

“What if it was a trap?” Moving closer, Dean can feel his hot breath against his lips. “What if you had of needed me and no one knew where you were?” Cas squints, in the way that he does, and his face is so close Dean is looking through into the galaxies that swirl in his deep blue eyes. “You should show me more respect.”

He flinches at the words. Cas manages to break down 20 years worth of walls...

In seconds.

He’s got a sledge hammer with Dean’s name on it and every time Dean fucks up, it feels like he’s betraying a part of himself. He lets people down, but he viscously doesn’t want to. He wants to be a good partner, friend, brother, son. A bitter piece of him knows that he never will be. He’s a monster. Blinking, he barely registers that Cas has moved back into his seat and out of Dean’s personal space. Dazedly, he looks out his window. The city is starting to wake up, businessmen already milling around on the streets. That’s one thing he hates about the city: everyone is important or has somewhere important to be. It’s not even living, a pitiful existence.

“Let’s go see what Crowley knows then.”

He takes Cas’ silence for agreement.  

Turning the key, he heard an uncharacteristic click. The cogs in his mind worked faster.

“Cas get us out right-“

 

_BOOM_


	11. Take Me Back To The Start Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting blown up is no fun. 
> 
> Trouble is, there is quite a long list on who could be behind it. 
> 
> Enter Crowley: Stage Left.
> 
> Dean goes on an adventure and learns some things that are necessary, but far, far worse than he ever imagined.
> 
> How's Cas going to take this little development?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split the chapter because you guys have waited far too long and i feel bad :3 
> 
> But hey, I've finished all my exams now and, i'm very hopeful with how my ideas for this keep coming, the updates should be more regular umu 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, all your wonderful comments (i wasn't blushing you're blushing) and the kudos. *boops noses* You're all wonderful. 
> 
> Apologies for mistakes, I'ma get round to fixing them eventually. 
> 
> Let me know what you think guys (: xo

Smoke. It’s heavy like a blanket that has settled over them; clouding and expanding out through the strewn, twisted metal and fire in the street.

Wrenching his eyes open, he gasps the thick air. He coughs. His side hurts. 

“Cas.” He manages in a hoarse voice. Cas must have been mid flight when the bomb went off. Bile rises in his throat. He’s about two metres from the wreckage that was his baby; choking down a sob he searches for his friend.

“Dean.” An equally strained voice replies. Squinting into the ash and dust, Dean hobbles a short distance to where he can now see Cas, lying, face up, on the tarmac.

“Dean,” Cas says again, their eyes meeting. It’s a nonverbal message that Dean’s not sure he understands. Slowly, Cas inclines his head to the side door, ripped from the hinges and thrown from the car. His wings aren’t showing (outing themselves as a couple of Supers would top his morning off) so he can’t be injured too badly right? Then, Cas grunts and his glorious right wing appears. Trapped, pinned, _bleeding._

Cas exhales and the wing goes invisible again. Dean misses it. He immediately squashes that thought down.

Straightening up, Dean winces at the pull on his ribs. Definitely bruised, probably cracked. He lifts, trying hard not to show his own pain, the car door enough so Cas can shimmy backwards and free himself. Once Cas is standing, perhaps a little off stance, leaning ever so slightly into Dean, their shoulders brushing, it is then that the proverbial fog clears and Dean sees them. People: circling bodies on the ground. A body: thrown into a wall and left there. Another lay back on the pasty concrete. A third deformed and maimed by metal shards.

He moves – somewhere in the back of his mind he registers Cas saying something – to the first body in a trance. Flexing his fingers, he waits for the glow to come. The anticipation as he kneels down, the crack and groan of his body in protest. His hands aren’t glowing. The power isn’t flowing.

Angrily, he grunts and searches deeper, pushing the power up. He’s tired and his powers have been weakened but that is _not_ an excuse when people are dying around him!

The sudden influx of power knocks him off balance, causing him to fall heavily to his knees, agonizingly, without a care to his side that is screaming and protesting with every push of his weary limbs, his hands flail, light pulsing, fading; faintly glowing in a jerky flash of yellow. They land on the body. The maimed, charred, body. He knows – how malicious it is that he does – that there is no light in this person. He’s too late. Too weak.

He tries anyway.

Forcibly grappling the burnt carcass in frustration, he siphons the energy out. Nothing. Not even a flicker of the light left.

He inches further. Grit and metal shards line his way but he pushes forward. There’s another. A woman’s piercing cry rips through him once more, rippling through the eerie street. Horrified onlookers surround the bodies. Black wisps rise from the hollow shell of his beloved car.

Their face is strewn in an expression that pain could not attempt to recreate, a half scream trapped in rigger. They’re dead. He knows. He just can’t control his powers now, with faces taking him in, he starts to sweat. Without his hood, he has more or less painted a target on his back. These people blame him... They have every right to.

Hanging his head in shame, he makes a last ditch attempt through the crowd to the wall. The man is slumped, as if in slumber, were it not for the crimson pool surrounding him. Hands flaring bright, he shocks himself when he grabs on. It is an absolute blackness that is left in the corpse. All of this was for nothing.

He can hear a fluster behind him now. That must be Cas. One more person he has let down. The hand on his shoulder squeezes and he wants to protest Cas flying because, firstly, he’s injured and, secondly, he kind of wants to be swallowed by the angry mob. The police will be involved too. That means his shit is going to blow back on Sammy-

FAILURE 

Initially, the word is just a blow to his gut. They land, falling forward in Dean’s dingy flat, Cas collapsing on the bed like he belongs there. Dean’s crying; he knows he is, but he can’t seem to stop.

His hands are fluctuating and it’s starting to hurt. Pitching forward, he mumbles apologies to Cas, then collects himself enough to say, “Show me.”

Cas groans again, the inquisitive head that had leant up from the pillow, falling back; his hands wringing the thin sheets in pain. The wings appear, steely plumage lavish down the sides of his mattress. Dean takes a second to just appreciate their beauty – of how prefect looks in his bed –  his eyes drawn to the injury. Cas is saying something.

“It isn’t too bad. Dean. Stop.”

He can’t hear him. He can only see the matted red and jarred bones pocking through skin and weaving out of place of the other uniform feathers. Not bothering to wait for his powers to settle, he presses his hands down. Cas makes an aborted sound. His powers flow and he watches in detached fascination as the tendons stitch back together. Satisfied, Dean wants nothing more than to pass out (as Cas has) next to him.

But the skeletons in his closet are screaming at him, monsters crawling out from the inky depths in the back of his mind.

WORTHLESS.

It’s the taint on his Dad’s breath. The desperation in his Mom’s screams. The hurt in his brother’s eyes.

And now, now with blood staining his hands, drowning the glow to a muted dirty yellow, he can feel the liquid trickle beneath his fingertips; latching on so as to never be scrubbed off. The taste of ash clings to his tongue, a cruel hint of copper and iron that lingers on his hitched breath.

How does he manage it?

How can he fuck up so badly? The angry faces seem to be still watching him. He’s tired... So tired. Aches in places he didn’t know were possible are overtaking him. That and the unrelenting shout of ‘you failed them Dean’, ‘you’re pathetic and weak’.

With shaking hands he calls Charlie.

“Dean! Are you ok?! Please tell me you’re ok.”

He blinks, swallowing down the tyrant that wants to scream no he’s really not. “I’m fine, Cas is fine. Baby’s-“

The Impala. The only thing his father only gave him in his life gone. The only real consistency in his fucked up life, blown to pieces.

_You break everything you touch Dean. I can’t trust you with your brother let alone my car! You don’t deserve her._

Charlie continues to talk. “- Yeah I saw. Sam pulled some strings though and Bobby went to pick her up. Dean, can you hear me? Are you still there?”

Bobby’s... Bobby’s got baby, what’s left of her, so she’s ok. He hasn’t fucked up that bad. Everyone’s come to clean up his mess again.

_Saving people, hunting things. The family business._

_The fist connects with his cheekbone. It hurts, stings, but he doesn’t dare raise his hand to rub the tender area, let alone block the blow._

_If you can’t even use that god damn power to save someone, what the fuck is the point in your life, boy?! A_ disgrace _to the family business._

“Yeah, I’m just gunna go to sleep. Let Gabe know Cas is ok, tell everyone not to come over.”

Even he knows it came out cold, calculated, compared to his usual tone. Void of any emotion, hell any movement, he clicks Charlie off. After a moment of staring blankly at the wall, he hangs his head. The world is a crushing weight on his shoulders and he can feel it. Three people dead. And it’s all on him. He doesn’t stir for a while. The sound of his breaths loud and imposing against Cas’.

He scarcely registers his own movement, the sound of his phone ringing bringing him back to consciousness.

“Winchester?”

The voice makes his skin crawl and he’s on his feet, a little woozily, before he can even snarl an insult.

“Crowley you son of a _bitch_ -”

“Squirrel, calm down. Please. Your apparently short lived demise was not my doing.”

It makes sense, actually. Why would Crowley have him killed? He’s a businessman after all; Dean’s his investment. Besides, there is a literal list of people who would want him dead.

Yes, you’ve got Demons at the top of the fugly iceberg. They’re the big bad, with powers and a hierarchy that is to be reckoned with. Below them though, you have the Creatures (or, that’s what Dean’s dubbed them). Vampires are after drugs, shapeshifters are after money, ghosts carry nasty grudges and, well, you get the idea. It’s like some freaky adaptation and only a small proportion of Supers got the justice memo.

Not that he’s going to give Crowley the satisfaction of believing him just yet.

He huffed, striding into his kitchen, because, really, he didn’t want to wake Cas. “Oh yeah, and why would I believe that?”

“What benefit would I gain in your death? Honestly squirrel, you’re more valuable to me alive... For now.”

“Say I believe you,” He ploughed through Crowley’s obviously relieved utterance of assurances, “Let’s just _say_ I do... You wouldn’t happen to know who it was?”

Narrowing it down would be helpful. He’s got to start thinking contingency plans and damage control.

“My dear Winchester, that’s why I called, we missed our little chat. If you’re interested in rescheduling, there’s a car waiting outside your apartment block.”

Gingerly, he rubbed his temple. Either he got a concussion, which is quite likely, or his head’s going to feel like he does pretty soon. His eyes flick to Cas, comatose on the bed. A piece of his heart shatters, flaking off, at the thought of leaving him out of the loop again. On the other hand, Cas nearly got blown up because of him in the first place.

“I’m not a huge fan of car rides.” He muttered bitterly, looking down at his blood stained hands as he grabbed for his Dad’s leather jacket. Cringing, he can’t bring himself to put it on. He can imagine, vividly from a selection of previous examples, the revulsion in his father’s eyes. He sighs, eyes sliding to Cas once more, hands bracing his body weight on the kitchen counter. “I’ll be down in 5.”

“See you soon, squirrel.”

Dean tersely pulls his filthy shirt over his head, balling it up as the fresh sweeping scent of burning fills his nostrils. He shucks of the ripped jeans too, dumping them beside the washing machine. Quickly washing his hands, he tries to relieve some of the weight holding him ransom. Instead, he watches the red swirl, diluted, round and round down the drain.

Sparing a fleeting glance to his body, near limping back to the chest of drawers, he can see the bruises forming. He rolls his shoulder, wincing at the twinge, and strain on his ribs too as he bends to pick up a new pair of jeans. He pulls a new shirt from his drawers, throwing it on with a grimace.

He turns back to Cas, debating what to do. Leaving a note is far too chick flick, even given the last few weeks. He chooses to take Cas’ shoes and socks off, not wanting to move him too much, and leave the trench coat on. He thanks himself for being a lazy bum and not making the bed, pulling the sheet over his friends sleeping form; barely resisting the urge to kiss him on the forehead or something equally sappy.

With a tight nod he heaves the door shut, flinching at the creak, hoping Cas didn’t wake up. Hastily making his way down the stairs, he pointedly ignores the stench of stale piss and prays to God that he didn’t stand in any. He snorts, _kids_.

Sure enough, when he bursts through the latched door at the front of his block, a slick black mini limo is waiting. He tries to shake off the cloud surrounding him because when you’re dealing with Crowley, you need your wits and then some. The door opens for him. He gulps, stepping into the car.

“Winchester, it’s been too long.” Crowley says, faux pleasantries, hand extended that Dean doesn’t take. He glares at him from the other side of the car.  

“Not nearly long enough,” Dean smirks, “How’s Hell?”

“Hells fine.” He replies petulantly. “Down to business.”

Crowley taps on the glass and the car lurches into movement. Waiting, Dean idly watches out the window, the streets moving faster, cars whizzing past. Daylight hours are not his favourite time of day to say the least.

“You’ve caused quite a stir, you and your giraffe.”

His eyebrows furrow, “My giraffe?”

“Angel? Castiel? The blue eyed, lost puppy that follows you around?” He asks incredulously.

“Get on with it Crowley.”

“Traitors yes. The game is afoot; the outcome is bad for us both.”

It almost looks like he’s nervous. There, a bead of sweat dribbles down his forehead. If the King of Hell is concerned, shit has got to be really bad.

“Some of my flock have turned against me, you see.” He sighs, “They want their old leader back.”

A few moments pass while Dean tries to figure out who Crowley means... When the pieces fall into place Dean practically chokes on his own inhale. “Lucifer?!”

“The one and the same. From what I’ve been able to gather the Demons; getting caught... It’s all part of some master plan.” He trails off. The notion is ridiculously more ominous with only the sounds of turning wheels and beeping cars filling the silence.

“You wanna elaborate?”

Crowley meets his gaze and holds it there. It makes him acutely discontent.

“They’re planning on breaking Daddy out.”

And, just like that, the air is sucker punched out of his lungs. Neither of them speaks. What could they even say?

Lucifer, crime boss to end all crime bosses, who wreaked havoc for the better part of a decade, who taught most of the Demons what they know... Him getting out? That’s close to an apocalyptic nightmare. A nightmare that, inadvertently, Supers have been in reality _aiding_ , is alarmingly possible.

The revelation only suffices to create more questions than it answers. Where Lucifer (and all Supers) is being held is a maximum security penitentiary, the warding on it centuries old to effectively leave a Super powerless once within its walls. Moreover, it’s got more armed guards than a small army, heavy duty weaponry specifically designed to disable most powers. Lucifer is _the_ most powerful Super there ever was though. He’s the Voldermort, the Smaug, and the freaking Dark Vader of the non-fictitious world. People used to scream his name in vain whenever something bad happened. Blame it on Lucifer. He claimed he was misunderstood. Dean’s not for the most part bothered, if it’s evil; he helps get it locked up – Daddy issues or no.

He hasn’t been paying attention, so lost in thought of the mere possibility of his escape, but he’s startled to see when he looks back out the window, fields. They surely haven’t been driving for that long... Have they? The chauffeur is driving manically, in a way that makes Dean reach for his seat belt in a sudden burst of self preservation.

Licking his dry lips, he leans forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I presume you’re not telling me this out of the good of your heart.”

“Of course not. There’s nothing good left in my heart. Look, we might not have ever seen eye to eye mate, but we both don’t want this to happen. I’m offering... A mutually beneficial alliance. Just until the threat is passed, then we can go back to killing each other.”

He considers this: a coalition with Crowley? That’s definitely going to bite him in the ass.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop it, obviously. In return, I will look into your little attempted murder problem.”

Cas is going to kill him.

Charlie is going to help hide the body.

Gabe is going to cover it up.

And Sam is going to have a bitch fit.

He smiles easily, “You got yourself a deal.”  


The car hauls to a grinding halt, skidding in the loose dirt. They turn, apparently heading back the way they had come.

His answer appears to relax Crowley, who settles back in his seat, intently scrutinizing Dean.

He gets dropped off beside a road; not even his appartment where he desperately wants to lie down. His body feels like someone got a steam roller and ran him down a few times, or dragged him behind a car in chains. The emotional and physical dread has filtered from the slump in his shoulders to the scuffing of his feet as he walks.

It’s dusk, late. Cas has probably woken up. He’s going to be _pissed_.

Rationally, he knows that putting it off is the worst thing he can do. But, his head and his heart aren’t in looking into the deep pools of blue and only finding disappointment and aversion. He’s seen it from one too many people he cares about.

His feet carry him, take him to a place he hasn’t been to in years. Not because he hasn’t had time, no, he should have come here. Every day. He should remember, rather than bottle it up and sink the feeling. He’s ashamed and afraid. Cowardly, his foot takes the first tentative step through the gate. Wind whistles past him. He keeps his gaze resolutely on his stumbling feet, feeling the tremors ripple up his hands. This is why he never came here: he can’t bear to face it.

Dean passes the steely granite, the unbearable feeling of guilt thrumming in his veins, thunder in the storm, waiting for the familiar voice to call him on his shit.

It never comes.

He crosses the small patch of grass. Heart thudding in his chest, rickety against his hollow bones, he drops down and crosses his legs. Pressing his forehead to the cool marble, he breathes deep, wet daubing his cheeks.

_“Hey Mom.”_


	12. Take Me Back To The Start Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wish you were here," He screams inside, hating the world for being so miserably unfair.
> 
> He tells Cas about Crowley and he isn't happy.
> 
> If anyone even so mentions the magnitude of this chick flick moment, Dean is going to flay them alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *FANFARES IN THE DISTANCE, DRUMS BANGING, CHOIRS SINGING, (Deadpool in the back laughing)* ORIGIN STORY TIME :D 
> 
> This was literally so disjointed to begin with (i wrote some of this before the first chapter :X), but i hope it's turned out ok.
> 
> I LOVE YOU MY SO FAR ONLY 5 FAVOURITE COMMENTERS *buys you candy and gives you hugs for the pain*
> 
> //whispers// this could be perceived as some (a lot) of pain. 
> 
> Let me know guys, much love 
> 
> Peace out bitches -xo

“Hey Mom.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been here in... I don’t think I’ve ever come. I c-couldn’t face it for a while. Like if I came, it w-would mean you’re really gone.”

Faint spits of rain began to fall on his back, the cold making his fingers tingle as he drank in the silence, a stillness that was absolute save his quiet sniffles. He kept his eyes closed.

“I bet Sammy has been up to see you...”

He trails off. In all honesty he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. What is he looking for? Salvation? Hope? A sign oh mighty Lord?!

When John died, Mary’s body was exhumed and brought here so they could be together – Sam’s idea – even then, Dean did not come to see their graves. He’s seen too many people die and having to see his Mom _and_ Dad’s graves is akin to time stamping his failures. A painful reminder of how he didn’t, couldn’t, keep his family safe.

“I’m so s-sorry Mom.” Tears spill out of his eyes, mingling with the rain in a lonely embrace. “I’ve t-tried to be the s-son you would want me to be. But I c-can’t do it Mom. It’s t-too big a-and I’m scared. I’m scared I’m going to get more people hurt. S-Sammy killed.”

He pulls his head from the hard stone to blink up at the sky. Rain drops fall on his face, numbing the skin; somehow the sensation doesn’t bother him.

“What am I gunna do Mom? You s-said you’d always be there for me, told m-me that I was s-special, that I was g-gunna grow up to be a h-hero. Y-you always said that a-angels were watching over me.” His chest was heaving, a chill stuttering down his spine. Whispering, he falls back to leaning on the headstone, imagining the stiff marble was her warm shoulder, “I met an angel Mom.”

Another sob stops the words from falling from his mouth. The ones about his smile, all gums and crinkles his crows feet, his voice, surely not legal, his eyes, bluer than anything he’s ever seen but deep and trapping. He doesn’t let himself tell her about the things they’ve done together; how many times they’ve saved each other’s ass. No, he can’t tell her that, not when he just let the man down so profoundly.

Once more composed, he gives a weak chuckle. “You would have liked him.”

The rain starts to fall heavier, big droplets splattering the grey stone.

“I don’t know what to do Mom. Why is it my job to save these people? Why do I have to be some kind of hero? How am I supposed to live with that?”

Recalling the deal he just made with Crowley, a piece of his resolve resurrects and sticks a knife in his heart. If he stays in this empty graveyard, crying about how hard his life is, people are going to die. Lucifer is going to get out. He looks down, the petals of dead flowers glistening in the drizzle. He looks back up, reading ‘Mary Winchester, 1954-1983, in loving memory’ and he knows. He knows it is on him, Cas, Gabe and whoever the Hell they can rustle up from the Roadhouse to stop this. This is his fight now; he will go down swinging. It isn’t about the why, it just is. This is his life.

He wipes his eyes. _Non timebo mala_.

“I have to keep them safe.”

He smiles, swiping his thumb over her name.

“Thanks Mom.”

By the time he is hobbling through the gates to the graveyard, the rain is pelting down; the sky is dark and gloomy, dirt tracks leading his way back to the city.

 

Cas awakes feeling incredibly refreshed. He had full sated sleep, aches from places long forgotten have dispersed and he stretches, flexing his toes, oddly content. The memory of the events earlier hits him full force in the chest. He sits up. Looking around, it takes him a few seconds to recognise where he is. _Dean’s_.

Dean, who, by the way, isn’t in the bed net to him. Disappointing. The blank spot in his memory frustrates him to no end. Dean is not here, he had healed him and, judging by his lack of socks and neatly tucked in predicament, he had gone out of his way to make Castiel comfortable.

He groans, falling back onto the not-that-soft pillow. Closing his eyes, he wills himself to recall the feeling of (albeit not the most erogenous part of his body) Dean touching him. Anywhere. He nearly craves the physical contact; the small touches when they meet, the protective hand when he puts himself in front of Cas and his _hands_ on his wings. A sensation close to erotic.

Belatedly, he realises that the thought of those hands on him has gotten him a little... Excited. The feel of Dean’s hands, digging into his feathers as he rocks into him from behind or his eyes, watching softly as Cas counts the freckles on his body. He slips his hand below his trousers and palms himself, gently at first, imagining it’s Dean-

Startling himself with his speed, he stumbles out of the bed.

This is a whole new level of inappropriate.

Dean doesn’t want him that way. Why would he?

He makes his way past the kitchen to the bathroom, rolling his shoulders to shake his wings. Inside he rolls up his sleeves and brushes cold water over his face. It’s a slap to his cheeks and he instantly feels more awake. He looks down. That is a... Problem. Setting the toilet seat down, he decides to get it over with quickly.

He can’t help the moan, still his mind decides to replay his fantasies about Dean, of him pinning Dean against a wall and kissing his soft lips. Thinking of the other night, of Dean stripping off his clothes, the ripples of his muscles and beautiful skin as he moved, he comes, a whimper and Dean’s name falling from his mouth.

Swiftly, he cleans up, blinking a few times to clear his mind of naked, dishevelled Dean. He looks in the mirror. His hair is a tousled as always, but his eyes look brighter, more awake. Sighing he leaves the bathroom to make coffee and call Dean.

Where is he anyway?

He unlocks his phone and blinks. No missed calls. Nothing. It’s already 5:34 in the evening and it doesn’t exactly make sense. Unless Dean is with Charlie and Gabe, trying to work out who blew them up. Then why didn’t he just wake him? Cas frowns, tilting his head at the screen with all his silent questions running through his head; he scrolls to Dean’s name. He looks up to the ceiling, tracing the cracks as it starts to dial.

He jumps at the blaring sound of NANANANA beside him. Dean left his phone.

A solid lump crawls up his throat. He skims down to Gabe.

“You’ve reached Gabriel, the sex Demi God, here to answer to all your devious needs. I’m a bit busy, probably saving the world or doing the do, so leave a message.”

Sighing angrily, he dials Charlie, tapping his finger restlessly against his leg. The kettle pings but he waits, the droning dialing tone gradually adding to his irritation.

“Hey Cas-“

“Charlie, do you know where Dean is?”

“What? No, I thought he was with you.”

He sighs again, anger being solidly replaced with worry. “No. I just woke up. He healed my wing last night... That’s all I remember.” He curses the amnesia that follows Dean healing him; the idea of being out of the loop for precious moments conflicting with how grateful he is that the pain stopped.

“He called me, earlier, told me to make sure no one dropped in. I haven’t spoken to him since. Have you tried his cell?”

“He left it here.”

The line goes quiet. “You don’t think he’s-“

“No.” He does think that, however he’s selectively choosing to picture alternatives.

“I’ve got his phone records up... He got a call. Blocked number, a burner, on his other cell?” She questions herself, surely, because Castiel doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The sound of typing and her hands flying across the keyboard fills his ears. “That’s for family only. It wouldn’t be Sam; he’s been with Bobby sorting out the Impala. The Roadhouse wouldn’t...”

Cas winces, remembering in clear detail the wreck that was Dean’s beautiful car. He loved that car (he’s not bitter, really) and the empty shell that someone left could be seen ricocheting in cracks through the man’s beautiful green eyes.

“I will find him.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, “I’ll go through some CCTV footage, see if I can pick him up.”

He clicks her off, smoothing down his rumpled trench coat, pulling his socks back on, slipping on his shoes. Surveying the apartment, he stares offhand out the window. Rain clings to his wings as he flies.

 

Dean’s limp has grown to a full blown swagger that he can’t help, walking a long distance aggravating the injury. His shoulder is heavy, the weight like lead in his joint. The deeper bruises jolt with every brush of fabric, the fact that he is soaked when the intense city lights come back into view leaving him with a fuzzy head. He can’t really say he’s relieved – the world is once more on his shoulders – and he has the undoubtedly negative conversations with his family waiting within those busy streets. It’s not like he wanted to get into bed with Crowley (the word use leaves him cringing) but if they’re going to stop this, a whole load of less bad guys to look out for would be a blessing. Not that he’s under any illusion - Crowley will betray them the first chance he gets.

The rain was plastering his hair down, sagging cold against his head, and making him shiver.

A crack of lightning reverberated in the street as a slow trickle of cars bibbed past. He sniffed, nose twitching in the damp air. It wasn’t like he minded the rain; it was one of his favourite weather types (though a bitch to drive Baby in). As it began to drum a little harder and seep a little deeper, he inhaled the thick humidity letting it sweep in and chill his bones. Chill him through, like a freezer, stopping the emotions whirling in his heart.

He wallows in it, the cold... With only the metronome of rain propelling his feet forward. It helps to accept that he is a failure. The words of his father, the words of Alastair and the words that have been spat at him from every authority figure he’s ever been stood before; his pace falters.

It’s like he’s searching for something he’s never going to find. Always looking, always fighting. Hunting for stars.

He probably wouldn’t know if he’d found what he’s looking for if it stared him in the face. Or continued to stare at him...

Something solid slams into him, bodily, arms holding him against the wall he’s been backed into.

He’s about to shove the guy off him, his eyes rising from his feet to see electric blue, squinting and calculating.

“What have you done?” Cas’ voice has dipped into that territory again, the air between them crackling not becuase of the rumble in the sky.

He doesn’t know what Cas thinks he’s done, he can’t have gotten wind that quickly, so he plays a classic Winchester card: he deflects.

“Aw, what’s the matter Cas? Am I out past curfew?”

Cas bunches his shirt, body pressing Dean into the wall, the strangely expressive emotions flitting across his face causing Dean a moment of hesitation in taunting the man.

“Answer the question.”

Sighing, he puts his hand over Cas’, an oddly intimate action that he had intended to be threatening. “I made a deal with Crowley,” Cas’ eyes widen, his forehead furrowing murderously, “He’s gunna keep the Demons on his side of our backs _and_ look into-“

He breaks off. Look into who tried to kill him and ended up taking the lives of three innocents instead. His mind wanders, the self loathing consuming him, until Cas punches him hard in the face.

“Damn it Dean! At what cost?!”

The man has the courtesy to look affronted at his own action, surprised even, that Dean had managed to push all his buttons and lose control. He’s broken Cas, Dean thinks nauseatingly. He has changed this man, made him do things, break rules and for what? For him?

“Fixing the mess!” Dean explodes, thrusting Cas off him, causing him to stumble, “He wants me to make sure Lucifer doesn’t get out and, to be honest, that’s the end game we’re all gunning for. No matter the fucking consequence, _Castiel_.”

Cas stares at him dumbly. He breathes, haggard, blood from where Cas hit him dripping down his cheek. He shouldn’t get mad at Cas – the guy didn’t know.

“Lucifer?”

There is a good space between them now, like they’re opposing ends of a magnet.

“They’re getting lynched to help him break out. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, I just know I have to stop it.”

“We.” Cas says, pushing back into his space, “ _We_ have to stop it.”

Blinking, he tries to scoot the physical pain breaking through his skull into his vision away. Why can’t this be simple? Yes, he needs Cas’ help, but, when push comes to shove, he’s got to do whatever it takes to keep his family safe and Lucifer in the box.

“Yeah.” He exhales, energy leaking out of him in his breath.

Cas’ eyes are still on him, looking through him, waiting for him to say something more; he won’t humour the idea, it is childish, but he wants Cas to get mad at him another time, to finally give up on him, just rid himself of Dean before he gets him nearly blown up again... Or worse.

“Their deaths aren’t your fault.”

His mouth goes dry. Quietly, he scoffs not trusting his tongue to get the words out.

A hand falls on his shoulder – when did he close his eyes? – well intentioned words aimed at him, “You can’t save everyone, my friend. Though you try.”

“Then what the fuck is the point in my life, Cas?”

The hand draws away, hesitating in the smaller space between them. They’re in each other’s orbit, no matter how far they drift apart they always end up back here.

“Dean, you’re a hero. You save lives-“

“I’m just a guy! Not a hero... You look back at my life, you know what you’re gunna see? Mistakes. One long line of fuck ups and slip-ups that are on _me._ People have fucking _died_ because of me, so don’t you stand in front of me and call me that.” He wipes his hands subconsciously on his shirt as though there is blood still drying on his hands. A wave of nausea hits him. It’s clawing up his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallows the insecurities and harsh words spoken to him back down. This was more lives lost; he will do better.

“Dean... I’m sorry.” Cas’ voice was raw, for the first time, deep with annoyance and pain. Why did he sound like that anyway? It wasn’t Cas that fucked up, it was him. Cas’ power isn’t to heal them, to bring people back. These deaths, they’re on him and only him.

He shook his head and turned away, anger acid in his veins. “3 people are dead, Cas, you’re going to need a bigger word than ‘sorry’.” Practically spitting the word he despised, Licking his lips, he adds on softly, before walking in the opposite direction to Cas. “I was supposed to save them.”

“And who is there to save you, when your guilt, your pain, your burden gets too much? Who keeps _you_ safe?”

He shook his head. Even if it meant limping in the pouring rain, he didn’t want to see Cas right now. He was afraid of what he’d see in his friends piercing eyes. Disgust, hate, disappointment. It was another name to the list of people he’s let down; for the life of him, he wanted him and Cas to be different. There were two of them now, right? They should have been more aware. If he hadn’t of gone-

A hand grabs him and whirls him around. The next thing he knows, he’s in mid air simultaneously pushing Cas away and gripping him so as to never let go.  They land on their building, the second tallest in LA, looking down on the city; you could scream up here forever, only to have the sound consumed whole by the metropolis.

“What the hell Cas?”

He says nothing. Observing silently as Dean shifts his weight, unnerved by his calculating gaze for the first time since they met.

Cas takes a step forward, Dean takes one back. He stops. Dean stops. Sadly, Cas turns his head to the sky, counting the lights of stars that have already died, but not with the same rapt fascination that he has when he looks back to Dean.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

He doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything because he really doesn’t deserve to be saved and he knows it. His head hangs down, jaw ticking, as he turns away.

“Dean?” It’s hesitant, gentle, too fucking caring for a man who was only supposed to be his work mate. He can distinguish the feather light touch of the pads of Cas’ fingers on the curve of his cheek, wet from rain, warmth pooling at the small contact; he shies away from the touch, striding to the edge of the building and dropping to his ass, legs hanging precariously over the edge. He waits, knowing Cas will join him.

“Be careful. Falling from this height would result in cervical damage, fatal within 5 seconds.”

He chuckles, lighting the mood somewhat, “I think I’d be ok, you’d just fly and catch me.”

“You should not be so certain.”

Smirking at Cas’ joke, a sense of humour developing somewhere, they end up back in silence. The patter of water on slates occupies the noise, but it’s like smashing glass – eventually one of them will break it.

“When we were younger, I pretty much pulled my little brother from a fire. Ever since then... I feel responsible for him. Like it’s my job to keep him safe.”

Cas’ attention fixes to him, turning attentively, as Dean stares at the blotches of movement below.

“He was just a kid who didn’t know when he got involved with some real bad guys. Lilith, the bitch, made me a deal to leave him alone; Lilith was close to Lucifer but was currently freelancing from Crowley. I... exchanged my life for his, being tortured and torturing-“ He shivers, correcting himself, Cas’ hand landing on his knee and staying there, “I didn’t _torture_ anyone, but I... Healed them. They used to beg me not to, to grant them the gift of death. But, I had to look after my brother; it’s what Mom would have wanted."

Cas is still watching at him expectantly; for once, Dean can’t be bothered to put up a fight anymore. He could trust Cas. The guy had saved him enough times, bizarrely, he even found himself wanting Cas to know. Wanting Cas to trust him back.

“My Mom,” he started. Already he could feel the swell of guilt and hatred for himself coursing through him, but he held on, he needed to get this out. “She was a Super, but she didn’t use her powers. A lot of people resented her for it... So she and my Dad moved away from the city to Lawrence. But they followed us and set a fire. I was 4, Sammy was just a baby. When I first figured out how to control my powers, I used it to heal birds and stuff. I’d only ever brought back Sammy’s rabbit back then... I don’t remember much. Just the burning heat, Mom’s screams.” He stopped then. The phantom tingle of the fire began clawing at his skin and shrill cries fill his ears once more.

Lungs constricting, he was brought back by Cas’ presence; the heavy weight of a wing on his shoulder, absently stroking. He swallows his gasp, allowing himself to be enveloped by their awesomeness. “Dad told me to take Sammy and run. When he came out after us, Mom wasn’t with him. We waited till the fire crew could get her out but she was... She was gone man.”

Dean frowned. If he had of been stronger, his Mom would have survived. This was all his fault.

 _All_ his fault.

“Dad took me to her body and begged me to bring her back. She was just lying there, almost cremated and I tried Cas... I t-tried so hard!”

Tears began to slip out and, at some point, Cas had pulled them from the edge, wrapping his huge wings around them both, cocooning them from the world outside.

“I passed out.” He sniffed, trying his hardest not to look at Cas and inconspicuously dry the wet streaks from his face with the back of his hand. “When I woke up, Dad gave me a look I will never forget. He blamed me then and he blames me still for her death. Sammy never wanted to be in the life and we slowly lost our Dad to the bottle. The car crash that took his life freed Sammy at last. He moved out here and it seemed like a good idea at the time to follow... And here we are.” Sighing, he felt the last words fall from mouth before his mind shut him out again.

Cas hadn’t said anything. He was just holding Dean like a precious gem, his wings occasionally twitching.

“My mother and father were famous Supers from New York. I believe they were what you would call Wonder Woman or Superman. Mother died when I was born and father left when I was 7. My uncle, Zachariah took me, Gabe and Anna in. Anna was a healer, like you. Gabe is a prankster. He notoriously made Zachariah’s life Hell. This led him to running away as well. Zachariah got promoted here and I followed when I was 13. In the mean time I searched for Gabe and when I found him, he took me in without question.”

Dean could feel it, this thing going on between them it was teetering closer and closer to non-platonic and further into more than just partners in crime fighting.

“Can I tell you something, if you promise not to tell another soul?”

So that’s not what he expected Cas to say. He was mentally prepared for a ‘you disgust me’, ‘what in God’s name possessed you to do something so monumentally stupid’. It was going to be a kind of release actually... Cas would see the worthless, pathetic thing that he is and move on. Be free of the poison that Dean’s already bled into his life. For whatever reason, Cas hasn’t left Dean yet; a traitorous piece of him starts to hope he never will.

So, he swallows. “Okay.”

“Zachariah is my... Uncle, of sorts.” Cas paused, pursing his lips, “I didn’t believe in disobeying his orders... But that night, with Alastair and... You. I began to doubt.”

 _Doubt that his ass was worth saving_ , Dean thought with a shaky inhale. Why was Cas telling him this? He’s never had the opportunity for the break up speech (not that this is them breaking up, since they were never, _ever_ , a thing) but he imagines this is how it would go.

The problem with the sorrows he’s trying his best to drown out is that they’ve started to learn how to swim. They sink down, offering respite for what could be weeks or months, only to come bubbling to the surface and break, said surface, with an intensity that still manages to knock him off his feet; he’s been dealing for a while now. But the thought of never seeing Cas again, never working with him,  it’s scary how much he’s affected just by the possibility.

His brain finally processes the names Cas just said.

“Zachariah, as in top police asshat Zach?”

Cas sighs, “The one and the same.”

The cogs all click into place. He nods, enticing the understanding to form words, “That’s why you were never in the papers, how he knows where the criminals are. Son of a bitch, he’s a glorified thief, taking the credit for your work.”

Humming in agreement, Cas does the thing when he get’s nervous or bashful. It looks like he truly hadn’t thought about how unfair it was for Zachariah to use him in that way.

“I’m not a hammer, Dean. I’m... broken. Shattered, sometimes I think that the things I’ve done and let be done are going to consume me. I made a deal with Crowley too, to take down Raphael, that’s how Zachariah got to police chief.” He mumbles the last part quietly, shocked by the ease of his admission but anxious as to how Dean will react. To his surprise, Dean chuckles.

“We’re a couple of dumbasses huh.”

Cas contemplates the notion.

The silence settles around them once more. Dean looks into Castiel’s eyes, lost in the fathomless depths of shimmering blue, darkened by the night but somehow blown bright at the same time by the stars. Cas was the first to speak, his eyes softening as he held Dean’s gaze.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”

Dean smirked, sadness evaporating, nudging Cas’ arm with his own.

"Cas... Did you just quote a movie?" 

"No," he returned the smile, which clawed up and tugged at the corners of his eyes and dimples on his cheeks, "I quoted a book that was made into a movie." 


	13. A Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samuel Winchester.
> 
> It's what your life was meant for Dean, ever since those bastards got Mom. 
> 
> They got Azazel, Dad died. Sammy... He has to protect Sammy. 
> 
> How many heals 'till you remember?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quieter fanfares, less laughing from Deadpool* Sammy story time! 
> 
> And more Dean ouchies D:
> 
> Poor Cas, seriously, the amnesia after healing is becoming a major barrier in their friendship.
> 
> I love you all.

_6 years ago; a very different time_

 

“Sammy,” Frantically, Dean slaps his brother’s cheek. “Sammy, wake up!”

Sirens are calling outside. Cursing under his breath, Dean lifts the limp body of his brother, lax arms hanging down, mouth drooling, and carries him out the back of the warehouse. Dean swears, spewing abuse at the symbols written in blood (mostly _his blood_ ) that he used to help clear the Demons out and the others that he doesn’t know the meaning of. He hates how close he came to losing his brother; how after well over a decade of doing ok, he fucks up. He’s glad John’s out of town. He doesn’t want to face him too.

Pushing the door with his shoulder, Sam mumbling incoherently in his ear, he drags Sam to the Impala, swinging the backdoor open, dropping him carefully down. He groans as the weight slumps off him, silently praying that he wasn’t too late...  Dean shakes his head. He can fix this.

He starts Baby’s engine, driving carefully but quickly, and speeds away from the warehouse without drawing too much attention. Slowing down, he smirks confidently when 2 cop cars hurtle past him. Sam mutters from the back.

“You’re short.”

Dean snorts. Nervous energy not completely being overcome by Sam’s dumb statement, he taps the wheel. Sammy’s ridiculous when he’s drunk. Or at least, he comes out with some stupid shit.

Gracefully swerving into the parking lot, he pulls on Sam’s legs, rolling his eyes at his brother’s feeble kicking.

“I’m the boy king Dean!” He crows, arms flapping uselessly, before clinging to Dean’s frame as he hauls him upright. Sam’s hands tap at Dean’s cheeks. “You can’t save me,” he blinks a little, dazed by the light, “but thanks for always being there for me big bro.”

He ignores everything that Sam just said, hooking his arm under Sam’s; kicking the door to their motel room in.

“God damn it Sammy.”

Dean drops Sam on the bed, pushing the door gingerly back into place. He winces at the sound of cracking wood. He turns to see Sam, lying on the bed with a fresh sheen of sweat pooling on his forehead as he claws at his clammy skin.

“He’s in my head Dean! GET OUT OF MY HEAD.”

Slowly, he makes his way to his brother. He takes in the track marks on his arms, the torn shreds of his shirt soaked in blood. His hand still bleeding from the cut, bags dragging his eyes down; Sam looks a mess. Choking down a sob, Dean’s heart pumps harder at the sight of his baby brother like this. Sammy’s 17 – plucky – with a bright future ahead of him... He’s working at his SATs, looking at a full ride to Stanford.

His brother shouldn’t be messed up in gang plots and conspiracies. He only ever wanted to be normal.

Sighing, Dean wills his hands to glow. It itches; unnaturally, he still hasn’t got the hang of getting his powers to work. Sam squirms away from the light, fidgeting on the bed.

“Nonono, It’s ok Dean. I can’t escape it.”

He pushes his hands to his brother’s chest, ignoring how he screams out at the warmth. Dean chases the drugs in his system: the hormones, stimulants, suppressants. They cling to his brother’s blood stream, ugly black against crimson red. He feels the yellow push the black away, absorbing the burn from Sam. Suddenly, he can taste the fluctuation in his powers. Sense the rip of his skin in the same patterns as Sam and the bitter heat flushing over him.

Falling backwards, he hits his back on the twin bed beside Sam. His brother whimpers. Then he’s out like a light. Dean feels himself teeter on the edge of consciousness – with the knowledge his brother is now safe – he succumbs to the darkness that awaits.

_Look after your little brother boy._

_You have to heal him **But Dad, it doesn’t work on powers!** I DON’T CARE BOY!_

**_Dad, what’s wrong with Sammy?_** _He has a power that a lot of people are interested in exploiting. If they get their hands on your brother... They can_ never _get their hands on him. You hear me? YOU HEAR ME BOY!? **Yessir**_

Sam Winchester is a psychic; he sees crimes, of varying magnitude, which, for obvious reasons, is a major dilemma for criminals. See, the thing is, he doesn’t have a filter. He sees everything, from a onetime opportunist to rival gangs making hits. What Dean had just saved Sam from? Prime example No 1: Demons got a hold of him and were using drugs and ancient texts to manipulate Sam into having irregular visions, made to order, of whoever they wanted to see.

It’s crazy and it scares Dean to Hell.

 

_2 Days Later_

 

The fist slams into his cheekbone.

“Winchester you worthless,” _punch_ , “Pathetic,” _punch_ , “Useless waste of space.”

A blow pounds into his abdomen, his body folding in on itself in an attempt to protect his vital organs. Grabbing him by the short strands of hair on his head, she pulls his bloody face level to hers.

“So you want to make a deal.” She nibbles her lip in a way that is anything but sexy.

“Bite me, bitch.” He spits at her, growling under his breath. If he can conceal the pain for long enough he might be able to walk out of here, eventually.

Her back up, a smartly dressed man, shoulders set back with an amused look on his face, stands by watching him.

She slaps him in the face. Blood paints the ground, flecks of red on grey.

“I’m _sure_ the Demons will stop going after poor Sammy. You’ll be able to keep him _safe_... You did _such_ a sterling job last time.”

Her condescending tone was dripping with sarcasm. He closed his eyes, breath dragged out of him with the expansion of his lungs.

“You’ll leave him alone? All of you?”

She drags her sharp nails down the line of his jaw. “The whole gang.”

He swallows thickly, viscous saliva tinted with the taste of iron. “You’ll never look for him again. He’ll be safe?”

Standing up, she rolls her eyes, scratching the skin of his cheek spitefully. “I thought you were the brash Winchester, I do wish you would stop droning on and on. Look, you have my word; he’ll be taken right off the Boss’ list.”

Her straight blond hair whips round as she turns, side eyeing him with an evil glee. He would really like to wipe that smug look off her face. First, Sammy.

“I want to know what your strings are before you attach them, sweetheart.”

The smile widens, cracking sinisterly over her pace face. “You will spend the rest of your natural life in, what we like to call ‘Hell’.” She struts back over. “I’ve got a friend who is just _dying_ to meet you.”

“Well that makes one of us.” The rope on his wrists is constricting the blood flow, rubbing uncomfortably against his skin.

The man at the back kicks off the wall he’s leaning on, offering them both a short wave.

“I’ll let Lilith finish up here. Pleasure doing business with you, squirrel.”

And so it was born. Her cherry lips pressed against his, her hands sliding round his waist to cut his bounds. Instantly he pushes her off him.

She smiles sweetly.

“You have 1 month with your brother. I’ll see you soon, Dean.”

 

_5 months later_

 

His hands are coated in blood.

When are they not?

Resting crookedly on his knees, he clicks his bony knuckles. He wants a drink... _Needs_ a drink.

The man slumped next to him looks as good as new; a toy straight out of the packaging. He’s been here for a year. He’s a veteran, where Dean is merely a foot soldier in the bowels of Hell. Disgust flows rampantly in his veins. He deserves to die. But, Alastair won’t kill him. Dean’s just too. Much. Fun.

They know now. Know that Dean has been undoing their work. Cutting the stitches behind their backs for months. It was simple really, until the torture got worse. They did each person in turn. Of course, Dean healed each one (it was his fault, they were enduring additional physical pain after all, add to that that some of them _genuinely_ couldn't remember) which ended up catching him out. Everyone got healed, to a degree, except, obviously, him.

He doesn’t understand the end game. Apparently there isn’t one. This is where lost, bargained, souls spend eternity. Alastair enjoys his work, the sick fuck. Calls himself the Picasso of his time. Dean snorts a sound that echoes in the barren room, people chained to the walls, the dirty muted walls. He wants to beg for sunlight, the barred window at each end barely offering a glimpse. It’s a tease. A reminder that those who go to Hell are destined never to feel, or see, the light again; they too are dark, and, no matter who you are, everyone submit to the shadows in time.

Sickness rolls in his gut. He hasn’t eaten anything more than bread in – estimating because time doesn’t flow naturally in this place – days.

It slips through his broken fingers and abused fingertips. They stay silent, the inmates, there is no use making friends. Nobody likes Dean – he only prolongs their suffering here. Conflicted by his need to save a life and the very human part of him that says it’s more humane to let them die, he fills the silence with the arguments in his mind.

The door bursts open.

Alastair has gotten bored.

He unchains Dean from the wall, yanking his submissive body to the chamber room. The walls are white, stark contrast the dirt that clings to the cell that he’s used too. He doesn’t fight Alastair, shackling him back up to the rack, his bones too tired and body to weak to protest the harsh movement. Alastair is creative. He prefers to instil psychological and physical torture, torture that you’ll feel for days, though it won’t kill you. Can you imagine a greater torment?

Dean’s feet are bare, old wounds stinging against the cold concrete.

The walls are white, so bright, but Alastair is practically radiating red. It covers the room, fills it up, choking him.

He holds back the scream, knowing that it only encourages him. Cuts, shallow but many, litter the sides of his arms, the dips in his ribs. It’s fleeting, the scrape of the knife ghosting across his chest so that the symmetry can be complete. Alastair is so fucked up, he tells himself.

He deserves it, though, doesn’t he?

Rather it is him than Sammy. No one to miss him, or mourn his loss. Dad’s dead, Sammy’s gone. It’s better this way.

Opening his eyes, he notices a pleased expression on his tormentors face. Dread beats a drum solo in his heart.

“Am I...” His voice makes him shiver, raspy, icy, something he will always hear in his head. Reminding him of how worthless he is, of how good he is for healing all his flock. He keeps them alive, for him. “ _Boring_ you Dean?”

Alastair is angry. His calculated, precise cuts turn rabid and manic. He pours vodka over his head. Dean nearly laughs at the opportunity to finally have a drink. The amusement is engulfed by the (what feels like) literally sizzling of his skin. Unable to hold it in, the scream is torn from his throat.

The door to the rack chamber flies open.

Dean’s sick of people making dramatic entrances.

“Step away from him.”

Delirious from the blood loss coupled with an intense burning, he _does_ laugh at the sound of the new guy’s voice. It’s like Batman. Either that, or the guy has been chugging glass and gravel. He feels almost out of the room; he doesn’t register what’s going on until he’s hearing a familiar rasp yelling in pain. He blinks the glaze from his eyes to see an intense gaze piercing him. With a grimace, he takes stock of the room, blood spatter painting the white walls.

Alastair is slumped down, a red streak over him, marking his death with an unorthodox gravestone. Red surrounds him, leaking from a small round wound in his stomach.

His eyes flick back to ‘blue eyes’. A blade twirls absently in his hand. He is still staring.

Dean licks his dry lips. The man tracks the movement.

“So what, he was good cop?”

He frowns, tilting his head. “I’m here to raise you from perdition.”

“Oh. Why bother, man?” He tries to reign in a bloody dribble in an attempt to not look so damn pitiable.

The frown deepens, lost beneath the mask. “Good things do happen.”

“Why don’t you go give the people in there,” Vaguely gesturing with his head to the direction of the cell. “Some of your ‘good things’. I ain’t buyin’ what you’re sellin’ buddy.”

He didn’t expect anyone to show up. The only person who was going to get him out of this was him. So he thought, but now there’s this guy.

“They are safe.”

Dean says nothing. He shakes his wrist a fraction, the weight of the iron slicing into him, trying to get the feeling back in his hands. The man seems to remember – wow really, great going Mr ‘I’m here to raise you from perdition’ – that Dean is actually Jesus style tied up to a pentagonal crucifix.

Gently, his fingers hold a grace of their own, he helps Dean down. Even goes as far as letting him lean on him, getting his wet blood over his flapping trench coat.

Once Dean can straighten himself, the man just waits patiently, he side eyes him.

“Who are you?”

“Angel.”

A chuckle turns into a coughing fit that ends up with him on the floor in the walkway outside the rack with Angel’s hand on his shoulder blade.

He makes it back to his feet, stance cowed, looking to Angel who’s standing, pretty awkwardly, in the doorway. Mind thinking more clearly, he takes the guy in properly. He’s a bit shorter than himself, an inch or two, his dark brown hair tousled wildly, bringing out the ocean blue of his eyes. For a guy dressed like he’s going to work in some bank, he’s actually attractive.

Great timing Deano, check the guy who saved your hopeless ass out.

“We sho-“

His sentence is severed by Alastair and one of his kitchen knives in his back. Dean crashes forward to catch Angel’s falling body, both of them ending up in a heap due to his less than successful attempt. Alastair winks at him.

“See you in Hell, grasshopper.” He drops to his knees, head cracking on the floor; stone cold dead.

“Angel?!” Blood seeps between his fingers, heat coating them.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Pushing up, he and Angel stumble in an almost drunken way down the hall. The stairs prove to be more of a challenge, however they manage it, propping each other up, heaving one another across the threshold and into the open parking lot.

Light assaults Dean’s eyes and they both end up back on the floor.

He doesn’t even think about it.

Nearly passing out again from the exertion, he shakily presses his fingers to the ripped dress shirt. Covered in blood, because another person thought it would be a good idea to help him.

An intense sting resonates from his hands, a throbbing ache blooming across his lower back. It dissipates. Angel passes out.

Dean leaves.

_It’s better this way._

 

_2 hours later_

 

Castiel wakes in a parking lot, smoke billowing out behind him, with a slap to his face. Gabriel is crouched down, Balthazar beside him.

“You got them all out, little bro?”

He blinked, scrunching his nose up. The last man was on a metal rack, of sorts; he remembered helping him and then... Nothing.

“I was successful.”

 

Angel’s face doesn’t make the morning paper.

Zachariah Adler’s does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Alastair didn't die, Dean just thought he was dead uwu


	14. Bobby Singer: Father Of The Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down.
> 
> We meet an old friend.
> 
> Bobby's and The Roadhouse adventures...
> 
> I suck at summaries. 
> 
> Just read it ok (:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy frick frack on a stick!
> 
> This chapter.. Omg, took so long to write.
> 
> I hope it's good? Idk, I'm trying to keep up with continuity, so if I've made a booboo let me know and I will fix it :3
> 
> I know i'm referencing this later but the songs mentioned are Twin Sized Mattress - The Front Bottoms, Never Went To Church - The Streets, blatant use of Drake and Josh... Yeah (: I don't own that.
> 
> Also, I had to make Sam a bit of an asshole in this chapter (my poor baby D:) I love Sam ok. But he needs to protect Jess and it just makes sense. I hated to do it, but as much as Sam ships Dean and Cas, he wants to keep Jess safe. So sorry, but it was a necessary sacrifice. 
> 
> Apologies for mistakes :> I will fix eventually...
> 
> YOUR COMMENTS ARE MY AIR TO BREATHE, I LOVE Y'ALL MORE WITH EACH ONE YOU LEAVE <3

Tapping his pencil against the page, he attempts to write a song. It’s been weeks and although ‘4 am’ was a hit, he blew that money on rent and a meagre supply of food. Pathetic, really. Dean unlocks his phone. There’s a bunch of missed calls from Sammy and a fuck load more voicemails. The general vibe of the first few were: ‘you could have gotten yourself killed’, ‘answer the phone’, ‘Jess is worried about you, please’. Truthfully, he stopped listening after the first three. Like the papers on his kitchen counter, the calls keep mounting up and he attempts to bury himself deeper into his own mind. He doesn’t want to talk to Sam, worry him again that someone might go after him and Jess. Or anyone, even though he knows it’s inevitable.

He uses the pencil to scratch his forehead, locking his phone with a sigh.

Time rambles on; his phone rings out in the engulfing silence. He raises an eyebrow at the caller ID and answers.

"Deano?" Gabriel whispers down the phone. 

"Uh... Yeah Gabe?" 

"I think," he hears shuffling and a loud bang with some muffled swearing in a language he doesn't know, "I think there's something wrong with my brother."  

Dean stops what he's doing.  

"What?"  

"He's just... I don't know. Different." 

Scrubbing his hand over his face, he winces at the barely there twinge above his eye. He's thankful that the headache from the concussion is gone; for the most part he has already begun to heal. 

Still, he sighs at Gabe's melodramatics.  

"What makes you think that?" 

Gabriel huffs. "Don't say that like I'm crazy! Look, ok it started a few days ago. He comes back, fell straight into my booby-trap and flew straight out! Then he ignored me for the whole day, didn't even come down to eat. I haven't seen him sleep yet, he just keeps pouring over those books you bought round." 

Dean's face scrunches up. Trust Gabe to pick apocalypse now to start getting paranoid. "As far as your prank goes, to me that's a pretty damn reasonable reaction. With things going to shit, maybe he's just doing his job and trying to stay ahead of the Demons?" 

"Nonono, Deano. Do not tell me how my little bro should act. I’ve pulled worse stunts on the kid hundreds of times! It usually ends up in a harmless prank war. And aren't you a tincy tiny bit worried -" 

"Alright," He mentally calculates what he's supposed to do in this situation. Cas did seem a bit... Off? For the last couple of days but then they had their heart to heart; he seemed ok when he left him. He takes a swig from his beer. "I'm planning on heading to Bobby's and the Roadhouse later. You want me to take him with?" 

The line goes quiet. 

"You're serious?" 

"Well yeah, we ain't getting nowhere on our own and I need a new suit." He twitches his nose. All the repairs he had done to the suit kind of fell through when he almost got char grilled.   

“Hells yeah! I’m sending the imposter over now.”

Gabe clicks him off before he has the chance to tell him to stop being an idiot, and he lays the pad down on the desk, moving out of the studio to the hallway where he hears a familiar flutter of wings.

“Hey Cas.” Going for normalcy, he ventures further down the hall to the kitchen, finding Cas standing by the door.

Cas scarcely acknowledges him, then looks away. “Are you ready?”

Surprised by the lack of the customary ‘hello Dean’, he checks himself. “Erhm, yeah.”

Nodding Cas strides over; he stops in front of him.

It must be because Gabe has mentioned it – maybe he’s been like this for a while and Dean hasn’t noticed – but Cas’ posture is off. He’s slouching. Cas doesn’t know how to slouch. _Damn it Gabe, get out of my head._

“Singer Salvage yard.”

Cas frowns. “I thought we were going to the Roadhouse.”

Dean scowls slightly back. “We are. I just need to see Bobby first.”

Eventually accepting this, Cas puts his fingers on his forehead. In a blink, Dean’s standing next to Cas on the outskirts of Bobby’s land.

“What’s the matter Cas,” he chuckles, “Compass lost its needle?”

Cas ignores him and starts walking into the yard, through the mountains of rusted motors. He starts to worry. This really isn’t like Cas. Running to catch up, he pulls him on the shoulder to turn and face him.

“You ok buddy?”

“Yes?” The frown remains in place. Dean wants to smooth it out with his finger but manages to refrain from it.

“If there’s something wrong you might as well tell me. I don’t want to have to go Obi-Wan on you.”

Snorting, Cas replies, “Like you have mind reading powers, Skywalker.”

Instantly, Dean pulls his gun. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dean? What are you-“ With a petulant sigh, that is definitely _not_ within Cas’ persona, Cas pouts, putting his hands up. “What gave me away?”

So many things, he wants to say. Although he doesn’t, keeps his gun trained on him, moving forward to get them closer to Bobby’s. In truth, what had given whoever the fuck it is away was that they didn’t get the chance to have their Star Wars marathon (yet) so there’s no way Cas would get his reference.

“Cas doesn’t understand references.”

“Fuck.” The word sounds wrong and dirty from Cas’ mouth – even though he has been trying to get Cas to swear for ages. It was going to be a personal victory: ruined. “I was doing so well.” Cas grins, manic; it actually freaks Dean out a little bit.

Shifting, he doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer, Dean rubs his thumb over the cold metal of the gun. “How long.”

The smile grows, a crack widening in a gorge. Warped and twisted. “Long enough Deano.”

He’s going to be sick. No, he’s going to shoot whoever’s inside Cas (and wow if that isn’t a vivid image he doesn’t need right now) and _then_ he’s going to be sick. Hatred gallops through his veins. He went and spilt his guts to a guy who was possessed. Weakness, Dean. _WEAK._ He should have listened to his Dad. The gun suddenly feels like a ton of bricks.

“Get out of him.” A voice from behind Cas barks.

The surprise on Cas’ face is near priceless, but expression and emotion doesn’t suit his features. He’s used to stoic Cas, he likes Cas the way he is. Bobby meets his eye in silent question, Dean minutely shakes his head. Slamming the butt end of the shotgun in his hand, Bobby knocks Cas out.

“You want to tell me what’s going on boy?”

Dean lifts Cas over his shoulder, fireman’s lifting his unconscious body up the steps and into Bobby’s.

“Possession.” He grunts.

“Balls. Anyone I know?” He calls from the other room, dragging in a chair for Dean to dump Cas into. They tie his hands to the arms of the chair, placing him inside a powers trap. It essentially locks the Super in a ring, which is handy if you need to keep something in an area.

He shakes his head. “I have no clue who it is.”

Bobby narrows his eyes, and then steps towards Cas.

“What is it Bobby?”

Pulling up the cuff of Cas’ trenchcoat, Bobby grumbles, “Darn it. This is a binding sigil. Whoever it is has locked them self inside him.”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean throws his hands up in the air, turning to look out the window, then back to Cas. “We can get it out, right?”

Raising his eyebrows, Bobby grumbles, “Yeah, I’ll go check the lore.”

Bobby comes back with three massive books in his hands, thrusts the largest into Dean’s chest and gripes something about being surrounded by idjits; he goes back to his desk with the other two, a glass of whiskey and starts reading.

Dean looks down at the book with distaste. He looks at Cas’ slumped form.

“The things I do for you man.”

And he starts to read.

Roughly 25 pages later, Cas begins to stir. He looks up from the passage, watching as Cas struggles against the ropes.

“Huh, a power trap. Clever.” He cringes at the abnormal the speech pattern but doesn’t reply. He turns the page.

They remain in silence.

He can’t take it anymore. Placing the book down, he ticks his jaw.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

He sighs. “Why are you possessing him?”

“We have history and I wanted to see what progress you’re making.”

Too fidgety to stay perched, he begins to pace.

 “That’s a big risk, considering Cas could probably take control from you.”

 “Baby I’ve done a lot more for a lot less.” He rolls his neck, a loud pop creaking out, “Besides, Clarence doesn’t know I’m possessing him.”

Dean frowns at her mid pace. “That’s impossible.”

Laughing sharply, he throws his head back. “I’m not your average demon, but you should know that, Winchester.”

“I know you?”

“You Winchesters tried to kill me.”

Dean stands still. So it was someone from him and Sammy’s past. Must have been a while ago, they tried to kill them and didn’t succeed though - unusual given their record. Who could that...? Oh.

“Believe me. I’m really fucking mad we didn’t succeed, _Meg_.”

His eyes widen a fraction, turning inky black, void of emotion. “Language, Dean.”

“Sorry. I’m really fucking mad we didn’t succeed, bitch.”

He smiles mockingly. He wishes Bobby would hurry up and find the damn incantation already. He’s had enough of this bitch in Cas.

The expression Cas holds changes. “I know what you’re thinking.”

For now, he will humour the demon; if only to tease the information he needs out of her.

“Oh yeah?”

That’s good Dean, stall. Stop yourself from beating up Cas, because you would be hurting him not her-

“He wasn’t the one who punched you.”

A weight he didn’t know was hanging over his heart grows wings and flies away. It wasn’t Cas, he wouldn’t and didn’t. This is good, this is progress. He subconsciously rubs at the pale bruise still on his cheek.

“Mhmm, and then you got all weird and gross. Your boyfriend moment was pure Cas. I thought I was going to be sick.”

This is by far the easiest interrogation he has ever done. She is giving him everything. He becomes rapidly cautious. Demons lie, there is no way to tell if this is true or not. He allows himself to entertain the idea that he and Cas had a chick flick moment and that the comfort Cas provided he had wanted to give Dean. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he is fully invested in whatever it is that they are, while Cas is oblivious.

“You’re lying.” He tests, leaning on the edge of the sofa.

“Well, I’m sure Cas can tell you all about it when your friend over there finds the spell.” He sighs dramatically. “You should see some of the things in his head though Deano-“

“You ready boy?” Bobby is leaning against the doorframe, book in his hand, looking entirely too smug.

He fights a blush, pushing off the soft cushion to stand in front of Bobby.

“You got it?”

“No, I came in to check if you wanted milk with your cookies.”

Dean laughs at his deadpan sarcasm. It’s his way of showing he cares – in this line of work you can never afford to get too soft.

“Let’s do this old man.”

Uncertainly eyeing the hot poker in Bobby’s other hand, he shrugs and takes it from him. Muttering an apology to Cas, he pulls up his sleeve and presses the hot tip into the scar on his arm. It crackles and splits, blood rushing to the surface.

Bobby begins to chant as he walks toward Cas, throwing some kind of liquid from a bottle. Cas’ skin hisses and cracks, a female scream bellowing from his lungs.

Black begins to seep from Cas’ mouth like smoke on water. It’s creepy; an image he isn’t going to forget as a final scream is ripped from his mouth.

Cas’ head drops down, chin against his chest. The black hangs oppressively above him, pushing desperately at the boundaries of the trap, ultimately futile in her efforts.

“Erhm, Bobby, what are we supposed to do about that?” He gestures with his head to the swirling smoke, untying Cas from the chair. Cas starts to wake up at being jostled. Dean chooses to press his fingers to the boil and it heals instantly. Groaning as he drops him on the sofa, Cas rolls onto his side.

“I didn’t think that far ahead.” Bobby sighs, staring at the smoke with a personal vendetta. When he leaves the room, Dean rushes to Cas’ side.

“I feel like I went on a bender.” Cas growls, his eye cracking open. “Dean?”

Strenuously sitting up, Cas takes in his surroundings.

“That’s what happens when you get possessed buddy.”

“I was-” His face pales as he stands and faces the swirling mass.

“Meg.”

“Meg?” He turns back to Dean.

“Meg.” Dean confirms again. Cas crashes into him, sudden and rash, holding onto Dean. It takes him a few seconds to process the hug (the _Cas_ initiated hug) before he clings back. Their moment is interrupted by the huff and puff of an old hoover.

A hoover?

Bobby stands into the ring, sucking the black down the tubing. He draws a symbol on the compact area, turning to face Dean and Cas.

They stare at him mesmerised. Bobby shrugs.

“What? I was improvising.”

He lifts the hoover out of the ring and places it in the corner.

“Bobby,” Dean says, awe rising out of the word. He grunts acknowledgement. “You’re awesome.”

He smiles, “And you know it boy. There’s something else actually.”

Waving them to follow him, he steps out of the backdoor into the yard. The area is less littered with cars here, newer models and tools lying about in the dirt.

Dean all but falls to his knees, Cas there to hold him up.

“B-baby?!”

He rushes forward, a swell of affection and hope and love exploding in his chest. Running a hand along her smooth frame, he leans his head against the sleek metal. He breathes in her scent, whisky and leather.

“I left all the imperfections in too.” Bobby lifts his hat and pats Dean’s shoulder in comfort. Meanwhile, Cas watches enraptured by how Dean’s whole demeanour shifts.

The imperfections. The kink in the rear view mirror. Army soldiers shoved into the side doors. Legos that rattle the air con when you turn it on. These dents, cracks in an otherwise flawless chassis, that make it beautiful. Home.

Dean hugs Bobby hard, squeezing the tears away.

“Yeah, well,” Bobby flusters, “That’s what powers are good for. Come back inside when you’re done you idjit.”

You know Magneto? Well if Magneto had a twin, and his twin wore a scruffy beard and trucker’s cap, with a heart of gold and a brain that geniuses would pay for, you would get Bobby Singer. It’s why he works with cars. And he’s pretty damn good at it too.

Satisfied he has baby back, and oh that’s a good thing to say, he and Cas walk back into his home. There’s a map spread across Bobby’s desk, images of men, women, demons, normals, all interloping and zig zagging on the page. It looks confusing as fuck.

“Crowley might be a slimy one, but his information is good.” He begins, motioning for them to get closer, “I crosschecked the database for the last few months. These are all the demons and normals that have ever been connected to or associated with Lucifer. The arrest rate has gone up by 76%.”

“Fuck.”

Cas nods solemnly.

“We need to figure out some kind of plan.” Dean squints at all the faces, names and dates hoping they will assemble by themselves and show him the answer. Cas picks idly at one of the strings. “There’s no way they can use their powers, not with all the crap they’ve decorated the prisons with.”

The next 10 minutes pass with discussion on how the demons could possibly pull this off, how they can stop it, if they have a time frame and who they can trust on this.

Predictably, they don’t come up with any solutions.

It was the early hours of the afternoon when they leave Bobby’s, the sun just peeking through the clouds, so the streets in this side of town were welcomingly quiet. He caressed the wheel, blinking to push the thoughts of the last time he held her away. Pulling up to the traffic lights, which had annoyingly turned red, he tuned into the music station Cas had chosen to leave on. It was Ash and Jo’s, damn it, and that now seriously aggravating guitar riff was blaring through the speakers. Then, _oh fuck no_ , the tale-tale crash of symbols and drums bled into his ears.

_I walk around like a skeleton last night_   
_Trying to find my way home_   
_This white frame it’s all that I’ve got left_   
_Cause not even you could chew through my bones_   
_I’ve got very strong bones_

Quickly reaching to change it, he felt Cas’ glare and didn’t need the hand on his arm to stop him.

“I like this musician.”

The look of incredulousness must have shown on Dean’s face because Cas huffed annoyance; he looked confined by the contours of baby, but at the same time he looked... Right.

“Gabe often ridicules me for my music choice. I like him though, please?”

Dean flushed. Realising now that Cas, _Angel_ , listens to his music. Castiel likes his music. _Shit_.

“Why?!” He exclaims.

The unusual outburst caused Cas to give him a questioning gaze; for a moment, Dean thought he wasn’t going to say anything. Turns out, when Cas gets talking he isn’t as bland as he seems.

“I find his music curious. It is obvious that he holds many memories in these songs. He doesn’t stick to one genre, although his own music is my favourite. I am not so fond of the covers he does of your kind of music, Zeppelin, Kansas. But I do like his covers of Beatles songs and an Elvis track. I am intrigued by the meanings behind his lyrics. His voice is also very pleasing.”

Dean’s jaw was agape. Castiel not only likes his songs, but likes his voice and wants to know the stories behind them. He could feel the heat burning through his cheeks and his heart was stammering like a school girl. Coughing awkwardly, he pulled away from the stop lights.

“So, what’s your favourite song?”

Cas genuinely seemed deep in thought about it. “Lyrically and instrumentally, ‘Twin Mattresses’ but ‘Never Went To Church’ is very compelling.”

“What do you mean?” He broke his gaze from the road ahead to look at Cas who was staring out at the world passing by his window, but had turned now, to meet Dean’s eyes. And woah, his eyes are so damn blue; Dean could once more feel the itch of lyrics forming under his skin.

“I find the deeper meaning behind the lyrics of ‘Twin Mattresses’... Fascinating. As for the other, my family were incredibly religious; when my father died, I looked to God for the answer. This man ‘got his head down and dealt with the ache in his heart’.” Cas even did the fingers to quote the song. Stupidly, Dean found himself quietly giving the guy a soppy grin.

‘Twin mattresses’ was a compilation of the main points in his life. Ironically named after all the cheap motel beds he’d ever slept on.

Sammy had come into the motel room, a long time ago now, tears streaming down his face, long bangs cut short, shouting something about being done with moving. He was going to Stanford. Dean had begged him to stay, selfishly, because he didn’t want to lose Sam so soon after the accident. After everything...

When he had first started out, people had mocked his youth and innocence and tried to exploit him; fortunately, he had 14 years of combat on his side.

That night down by the lake had been great fun, but it was also the first (and last) time he had tried to get with Jo.

And his nightmares probably did have nightmares at this point.

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

Cas was staring at him again. “What is your preferred song?”

“18 years. Reminds me of me and my brother.” _Because I wrote it about me and my brother._

Many people have complimented Dean’s music, but there’s something about Cas wanting to know more that made Dean’s heart stutter in his chest.

The crackly lyrics from the song on the radio filtered back in.

 “I prefer cassettes though, I just listen to this station for the rock they have on sometimes.” ‘Skeleton’, although hilarious at the time, was actually one of his least favourite songs, hoping to be inconspicuous, he went to click the radio onto the cassette he had in at the moment. He was stopped by an almost growl and squinty eyes glaring in his direction.

“Don’t change it you... Assbutt!”

That was undoubtedly the most ridiculous thing ever to have come from Cas’ mouth. _Think unsexy thoughts, fuck._     

Just then Jo’s voice crackled over the instrumental, pausing the song, “ _Apologies friends, technical difficulties, welcome back for the rest of ‘Skeleton’. You’re listening to Led Wayne on Badass Network.”_

Throwing his hands up in the air (puppy eyes from Cas as well, seriously?!), Dean got over the initial shock of hearing his own music. He remembered _exactly_ why he had written this song.

_I walk around like a skeleton last night_   
_Confused and alone_   
_Who was I kidding I can’t get past you,_   
_You are the cops, you are my student loans_   
_You are a head shaped hole_   
_In a sheet rock wall_   
_You are the pain I feel_   
_You are the stud in the wall_   
_Better than nothing at all_

Sammy and Jess had gone on a break after his visions got really bad. She couldn’t cope with his agonising sleep terrors and he loves that girl with something fierce, so for the first time in months, he turned to his big brother. They had gone on a bit of a road trip to Missouri’s and spent some time together, like the old days. He had written this song for Sam after watching his brother mope for a solid 2 weeks. Then there was the African Dream root...

_And I got so stoned_   
_I fell asleep in the front seat_   
_I never sleep in the front seat_   
_I’m too tall_   
_But I got so stoned_   
_I fell asleep in the front seat_   
_I never sleep in the front seat_   
_I’m too tall_   
_But I got so stoned_

When they woke up, he wasn’t going to give Sam something without doing it himself in case it’s dangerous; Sam was repeating that for ages:

“I got so stoned. Dean I fell asleep in the front seat. I never sleep in the front seat. I’m too tall. _Deeeean_.”

He could feel the chuckles rising through his chest at the memory. Sam could fit in the front seat (though as kids they both slept in the back) which only made Dean laugh harder. For the whole drive home that was the only coherent list of sentences Sam managed to get out.

_Come on, baby, calm me down_   
_You’re the only one who knows how_   
  
_Reunited and it feels so good,_   
_It’s so much better than I thought it would._   
_Cause I feel fucked, but in a good way._   
_I start to cough, taste the butane._   
_And I can tell that he’s asking her Yes or No questions_   
_By the way she’s shaking her head_   
_From left to right, then up and down,_   
_Then left to right again_

Course when they got back, Sam was his usual dorky self. It became Dean’s mission to find something to reduce the effect of his powers – Sam was too head over heels in love for Jess to see what his brother was doing. However, being a Winchester is never smooth sailing and pretty soon that asshole, they’re now on a first name-ish basis, Zachariah put out a bolo on Dean. (Juvenile innocence counted for nothing due to all the bar fights he got into). Obviously, they go to closest family and Sam and Jess fought again. The puppy dog eyes he had given Dean as he stood in the doorway to his flat block, hair plastered down by rain, made Dean grin.

That, and the fact that Sam had lost his shoe on the way over.  
  
 _I’m gonna go get so stoned_  
 _I fall asleep in the front seat._  
 _I never sleep in the front seat,_  
 _I’m too tall._  
 _But I got so stoned_  
 _I fell asleep in the front seat._  
 _I never sleep in the front seat,_  
 _I’m too tall._  
 _But I got so stoned_

They went on another trip in the Impala. Sitting under the stars, bottle of beer in hand, on the bonnet in some unnamed city with his brother by his side... Well, things were good between them then. Sam was love sick; soon enough Jess called him home.

Dean has tried to stay away from his brother since. It’s about time he stopped fucking the poor kid’s future up. It’s another reason he hasn’t returned his calls.  


_Come on, baby, calm me down_   
_You’re the only one who knows how_   
  
_I got miles to go_   
_Till I ever get home_   
_But the sound of your laugh_   
_And your voice on the phone_   
_Makes me feel like I am already there_   
  
_I got so stoned_   
_I fell asleep in the front seat_   
_I never sl -_

The last lyrics of the song are lost under the rev of the engine as they pulled into the Roadhouse Bar.

“Here we are.”

Dean closed the door, looking up to see Cas standing in front of him.

“You just teleport yourself everywhere, huh? You should walk more otherwise you’re going to get flabby.”

Cocking his head to the side, Cas’ eyebrows knitted, in the way they do, as though Dean had just given him the encrypted secret of the universe and it was his job to work out what it meant.

Dean shook his head. “Come on Cas, time to meet mother hen.”

He strode off in the direction of the doors; he couldn’t suppress the chuckle at the words Cas’ obscenely gravelly voice said as the stone crunched beneath his following footsteps.

“I don’t understand why we are going to see a paternal chicken.”

 

The familiarity of the bar greeted him and swept him up with fond memories, wrapping around him and making his core thrum with contentment.

Searching the bar he caught eyes with Jo, who beckoned him and Cas over for a beer.

“Deano, I didn’t know I’d be having the grace of two Winchester’s tonight.”

Before he could even answer a disgruntled ‘huh’, there was a large hand whipping his shoulder round and the deep moose voice from the towering frame above him.

“Dean what the hell are you doing here?”

“Uh-“

Again, he was interrupted by the sound of a flapping trench coat and Cas, very calmly, removing Sam’s hand from his shoulder and asking him who he is and why he is ‘assaulting’ Dean.

He quickly slapped Cas over the shoulder in a friendly way, trying to pass all of this off as the big misunderstanding it totally was.

“Woah, woah, woah, Cas, buddy, this is my _brother_ Sammy, who,” He threw his head back to talk to Jo, “I did not know would be here tonight.”

Smiling sheepishly at Sam he shrugged in a ‘what can you do’ kind of way, and belatedly realised that Cas had stood down but his hand was still grasping onto the fabric. He let go, hands falling awkwardly to his sides.

“It’s Sam, jerk.”

“Sure thing, bitch.” A few tense seconds passed. “So what _are_ you doing here Sammy? Roadhouse burgers don’t usually live up to your rabbit food standards.”

“Oh like you don’t know!” Sam’s tone caught Dean off guard for the thousandth time that day. It made Dean wish he had a planner or something that could catalogue everything he either isn’t told or gets buried beneath the clutter of mess that is his life.

“Er-“

“You’re such a bad liar Dean. I left you like a dozen messages on your phone.”

“You callin’ me a liar?!” He replied dumbly. This must be important. He winces, maybe he should have checked his phone.

“Well I ain’t callin’ you a truther!” Sam shot back.

“If not for Dean’s benefit, but for my own, what is going on here?” Cas interjected, standing between the brothers, yet slightly to Dean’s side.

“You must be Cas, right?” Sam said, holding his hand out inelegantly.

Cas stared at it and, with a nudge from Dean, shook it, “Castiel, yes.”

“Cool.” Sam frowned at Dean for a minute. “Dean can I talk to you in private?”

They moved to the back of the bar. “How much does he know?” 

Dean didn’t answer. He was pretty sure Sam’s face just fell off the cliff of disbelief.

“You told him. You told him the secret. Our big family rule number one; we do what we do and we shut up about it! For a year and a half, I did nothing but lie to Jessica and you go out with this dude from the city a couple of times and you tell him everything! Dean!”

 _Not everything you asshat and it’s been months Sam, months._ “Yeah. Looks like.”

“Did you tell him about me?”

Dean’s brow furrowed at the question. Here we see his overly cautious little brother. Even if he has every right to be. Sam _did_ say he wanted to meet him though. The confusion was building with every second of this conversation and Dean was having a hard time on focussing on the angry pout on Sam’s face. “Yes but I trust-“

“You trust him! Oh well that’s alright then. Because we’ve never been duped by a Super before.”

“He’s my friend, alright?” Seriously, Sam is really pushing his buttons today and it’s bringing out the defensive side in Dean. “And he’s saved my sorry ass repeatedly over the years.”

Angel has been there to get him out of trouble when he didn’t necessarily have to be, even 5 years ago. Like the first time they met, he inadvertently helped Dean get away from Alastair (sans that time at the docks). Huh, they have sort of unconventionally had each other’s backs for a long time.  

“Why are you getting so pissy over me having a friend for a change?!”

“There’s a reason you don’t have friends Dean, you’re a Super. Most of your friends end up dead!”

Sombrely Dean laughed at his brother, “Yeah. Yeah I know, and it’s been my fault each time. I get it Sam, I fuck up. _You_ said you wanted to meet him! And since when did you get to ban me from coming to the Roadhouse as well!?”

He started to walk away, shaking his head, back to Cas where he was promptly going to take them both home.

“Shit, Dean look I didn’t.” Huffing a moose breath, he turned Dean to face him, hissing under his breath in a bad attempt to be inconspicuous, “I’m going to propose to Jess alright.”

“At the Roadhouse! Dude, what’d you get her? An onion ring?!” Staring up at the gangly frame of his brother, he pointedly ignored the bitch face. Seriously, Ellen runs a nice joint but it is _not_ proposal material. Rich coming from the man whose longest relationship was a weekend.

“No,” He hissed again, “And keep your voice down. Her whole family is going to be here, so please, _please_ don’t be a jackass.”

Dean grinned, hiding the pain his brother’s words had caused, “Sure thing Sammy, I’ll keep out of that ridiculously long hair of yours.”

Somewhere in the depths of his soul, a blade twisted and years of looking out for his brother distorted into nothing. Because that’s all Dean does. He fucks up.

Cas must have noticed; as Sam turned and walked to kiss Jess on the cheek by his table, he turned Dean around and onto a seat at the bar.

“He did not live up to my expectation of your sibling.”

Laughing now, Dean’s eyes rose gratefully to Cas’ and even though he’s pretty sure Cas doesn’t get why he’s smiling, his lips twitched a little wider when he saw the grin that’s taken over Cas’ face as well.

“Dean Winchester if you’ve come here looking for another suit, I’m going to start charging you!” The voice boomed from behind Cas. Dean has faced Supers, guns, a car crash, years of abuse but nothing, _nothing_ , instils fear in him quite like Ellen on Mumma mode. 

Standing so as to give her a hug, he side glanced Cas who looked amused at Dean’s discomfort. _Bastard._

“Sorry Edna, fire smoked it.” He beamed.

“You just watch that it doesn’t smoke you with it.” Flapping the tea towel by his face she ushered him to the bar. “Be a good boy and help Jo serve your brother’s guests when they get here. And tell Ash to get off that damn radio show of theirs!” She turned back to Cas. “You must be the partner Dean keeps blabbering about-“

“I do not blabber!” Came Dean’s undignified voice from the back, followed by a squeal from Jo as he whipped the tea towel at her.

“My name is Castiel.” He held out his hand, something he has discovered to be customary, and was pulled abruptly into a hug.

“Or Angel,” She whispered into his ear; pulled back grinning at the stone cold look that swept over the young man, “Don’t look so worried. The name’s Ellen, but the Winchester boys find it hilarious to call me Edna.”

Cas stared blankly at her.

“It’s from a children’s film. Anyway, only me and Jo know your secret, and this is kind of a Supers refuge. You’re welcome here anytime sweetheart.”

Cas spent the rest of the time talking to Dean from across the bar. By around lunch, Cas had gorged himself in one of the Roadhouse famous burgers; Dean tried really hard not to stare. Instead he watched with amusement and a hint of arousal – if the guy makes noises like _that_ over a burger, can you even imagine the sound of his voice as he reaches climax! Or the look on his face... The direction of his hair...

A glass smashed.

Cas tried to help him clean it up, but Dean flapped the towel to stop him. He called goodbye to the patrons of the bar, simply waving at Jess and Sam, who looked at him a mixture of apologetic and sour, with Cas by his side and a new suit under his arm.

They slid back into the Impala. Dean grinned, oddly content as he started the engine.


	15. Assemble In The Batcave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen in 3 days...
> 
> You could renovate a room.
> 
> Assemble a team of Supers.
> 
> Plot the gay relationship of your best friend and your brother...
> 
> Wait what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got really... Feelsy? 
> 
> Probably cheesy. 
> 
> Bring on all the references hells yeah! 
> 
> I love Gabe so much omg. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos, comments, hits... EVERYTHING. I love you all. 
> 
> You guys know who you are who hold a special place in my heart uwu
> 
> Comments are as always massively appreciated :3
> 
> Mistakes will be fixed ASAP. I'm already working on the next chapter (this took me too long, believe me I know. Sorry 'bout that)
> 
> Let me know what you think, bitches xo

_Day 1 – Ground Control_

Dean has pretty much moved in with Cas... And Gabe.

He totally meant moved in with them both because he lives in their building now. They’ve decided, because of many logical reasons, to set up their command centre there.

All the technology and space can be put to good use, so they begin by clearing one of the floors.

Arduous though it was to convince Gabe to stop creating things (a dinosaur at one point) and actually help, between him and Cas they got everything removed and new things positioned.

The smile Cas gives Dean that night as they settle on the blow up beds is enough to send him into a dreamless sleep.

_Day 2 – Rally the Troops_

Staring out at the clear, white room, Dean sighs to himself. This is really happening. They, a high school dropout, tax accountant with wings, trickster and nerd, are going to stop one of the most prolific criminals from breaking out of a prison, who, I might add, has the back up of a small army. Peachy, just peachy.

He found out that Cas is a morning person. He doesn’t know why that’s stuck in his mind, or why it’s relevant, given that Luci could be putting his plan into motion at any time – they are barely ready. But, there it is, Cas is a morning person whereas Dean needs his coffee.

The flutter of wings beside him doesn’t make him jump anymore. It’s familiar and comforting. A small smirk is brought to his face.

“Hello Dean.”

He turns to face him, “Hey Cas.”

They stay like that for a moment, just breathing in each other’s company.

“When is Bobby bringing the scriptures? I offered him transportation, however he declined.”

Dean laughs, “That sounds like Bobby. Soon, I reckon. Charlie should be getting here at some point too.”

As if on cue, the elevator pings. Gabe looks up from his desk frowning, tapping furiously at the keys.

“Sup bitches.”

There, in all her glory, with a mountain of suitcases piled around her, was Charlie.

“How in the hell do you keep doing that?!” Gabe sighs dramatically, draping himself over the keyboard in defeat.

“I’m awesome,” She flings a hand through her hair and rolls her eyes at Gabe.

Dean strides over and pulls her into a hug. It has been a long time since they’ve met up, let alone seen each other face to face.

 “Hey Deano.”

He smiles at her, taking two of the bags. “Which desk do you want?”

She frowns in return, and then her mouth drops. Taking in the full size of the room, she whistles. “Wow, this place is bigger than the tardis.”

Her footsteps click in time with her galloping feet; she runs to the middle of the room and lets out a breath. Pivoting, she gives Dean a wicked smirk.

“I think that wall will do.”

He and Cas stand in awe as she instructs Gabriel on how she wants things set up. Bless Gabe, he doesn’t even try and protest to what she’s doing to the room. Cas gets roped in too, transporting easily 50 TV screens from the technology floors below and wiring them up to the wall. He and Gabe drag the desk over, setting it up in front of it. They all know better than to touch her computers, so they leave her to open the suitcases, removing the wires and keyboard and screens and tablets.

Dean feels suddenly severely underequipped for this.

Then again, that’s why Charlie is such an amazing handler.

The finishing touch is given, when Charlie removes the Hermione bobble head from the inside pocket.

She swivels round, grinning at the three tired and disbelieving men.

“Vuala. My throne is complete.”

Dean just nods, Gabe throws up his hands and goes back to his desk, envious eyes stealing glances at Charlie’s station and Cas, well, squints at her, in the way that he does when he doesn’t understand something. He continues to watch her as she settles into her element, before realising that there was actually stuff he needed to do.

Yes, he is a useful part of this team. Kinda.

“Char, I need you to get me all the surveillance you can of the prison. Inside and out. I want screen shots of all the protection symbols too.”

She Vulcan salutes him. “You got it Captain. Anything else?”

He shakes his head, leaving her to it. Cas studiously follows.

Next in is Bobby, holding a fuck ton of books in his hands. Dean raises an eyebrow impressed. Bobby has a habit of always outdoing himself.

“You gunna stand there and gape at me Princess, there are more where these came from ya idjit.”

He doesn’t have to think of an answer because Cas’ hand is on his shoulder and he’s already flitted them down to the garage. Between them, they manage to gather up the last of the books and place them on the large table in the centre of the room. Sighing, Bobby takes a seat. He eyes Dean with a look that is almost cautious.

“Have you thought about bringing your brother in on this?”

Gabe stops typing and Charlie glances at him from her screens.

Had he thought about it?

Of course he had fucking thought about it.

Sammy is the brains of the family; he always understood and could read the ancient texts faster than he could. He’s also ridiculously smart but has a good conscience. They need all the eyes and hands they can trust on this.

He deflates. “Yeah, I’m planning to call him after the Roadhouse.”

Walking away from them, he doesn’t want to see the pitying expressions on their faces. He doesn’t need to see it to feel it in his core. He’ll let them do what they want to the room, get it set up for anyone else they can scrounge up.

He calls the Roadhouse first.

“Y’ello.”

“Hey Ellen, it’s Dean.” He leans against the wall, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Dean, sweetheart, what can I do for you?”

“Something big is coming Ellen. I need you to grab whoever you can trust and come to Cake-a Erotica.”

Ellen doesn’t say anything for a beat.

“That big ugly building?”

He’s glad Gabe didn’t hear that. Although his ego could do with the denting.

“Yeah, and make it fast.”

“We’re already on our way.”

Dread hanging an anchor around his heart, he flicks up the screen to Sammy. It tightens as he sees the name illuminated on his phone. He sighs, dialling the number.

“Dean.” The voice is cold, unattached.

“Heyya Sammy.”

Kicking off the wall, Dean begins to pace. Sam’s lawyer mode makes his nervous. Plus, they still aren’t on great terms.

“I’m a bit busy at the moment Dean, what do you want?”

He exhales loudly.

“I need your help. We need your help.” He amends, wincing at how he sounds.

“Whatever it is, it will have to wait-“

“Lucifer. They’re going to break out Lucifer Sam. I just need a couple of hours of your busy life to help translate the symbols and scriptures about the prison and then you can go.”

Dean can practically feel the bitch face through the phone.

Sam sighs.

“What I was going to say was I’m in the middle of a high profile case.” He pauses. “But that’s some big bad. I know a kid who will be of more use than me; I’ll stop by later if I have time, ok?”

Dean stops pacing. “Ok fine. What’s the kid’s name?”

“Kevin Tran, he’ll be at the university. I’ll let him know you’re dropping by.”

“Thanks Sammy.”

He hangs up on him.

Cas must have a sixth sense or something because he’s at his side instantly.

“Where are we going?” Cas says, his voice as gravelly as ever.

Huffing a laugh, Dean looks up at Cas and smiles.

“Cas, we’re going to school.”

It sounded more dramatic than it was; Dean is such a dork that when they land, he makes a fuss of Cas by tying his tie properly (the right way round even) and doing up his top button. Cas looks at him like he’s crazy.

He walks straight up to a group of kids on the grass, trying to give off the vibe of authority. The best way to people to believe you’re something you aren’t is confidence. It’s all about the delivery and your posture, attitude, but most importantly, you mustn’t look desperate.

“Excuse me, kids. Do you know where I can find Kevin Tran?”

One bright spark chews their gum inelegantly. “Who are you?”

“A friend. You know where he is?”

The rest of the group eye him and Cas incredulously.

“What’s in it for us?”

The internet is ruining children. 10 years ago, they’d be intimidated by Dean and Cas’ very presence, now they’re bargaining for a stake in something. It’s times like these where Dean questions his alter ego.

“Jack shit. Can you just tell us where he is?”

A girl snorts. “You’re serious?”

Cas leans forward, glancing at Dean then to the group. “Yes, that is his serious face.”

Double taking, Dean shakes his head and pulls out his wallet.

“I got a couple of dollars, and he better be where you say he is.”

A few of them shrug.

“He hangs out in the library with his girlfriend.”

Cas flies them to the library whilst he puts the money away. Dumbass kids should learn never to give away your information until you have received what you want in return. The smell of old books and geeks fills the air.

To his left, Cas looks enraptured by the massive walls lined with books; Dean has to physically manoeuvre him to the front desk.

A literal witch is behind it. She is wearing a centuries old outfit and probably would fit in better in a museum. He clears his throat. She ignores his existence.

“Hi, I’m looking for a friend of mine, Kevin Tran.”

He puts on his most charming smile, which she greets with bored eyes, giving them both a once over, pointing to the corner of the room where a boy and girl are sitting.

“Thanks.”

Kevin looks up as they walk over, offering a small wave. Dean raises his head in return, Cas does nothing. He says something to his girlfriend and is in the process of packing away his books when they reach him.

“Hi, I’m Kevin. You must be Dean and Cas, right?”

“That’s us.”

Kevin slings his bag over his shoulder.

“You ready kid?”

Nodding enthusiastically, Kevin gives them an anxious – evidently excited – smile.

“Alright then Cas, to the Batcave!”

“I understood that reference,” Is the warning Kevin gets before they’re flitting back to Gabe’s.

Kevin is still screaming when they land. Empathetically, Dean pats him on the shoulder. The first flight is always the worst. Everyone acknowledges their arrival and Dean notices that the rest of their makeshift crew has arrived.

Standing awkwardly beside him, Kevin gawps at the room.

At the far end is Charlie, monitors set up with 50 different camera views and a tier of computers and wires. Across from her is Gabe, clicking away at his own computer. In the centre, the massive table, occupied with books, Bobby and Ellen. Jo is sparring with Ash, testing each of their powers. Near to them, Benny is setting up a workstation, materials piling up on him on either side. Garth is arranging something, it looks like sock puppets and Dean really doesn’t want to know, where the beds are.

Organised chaos, a tornado crammed into a room.

It feels like home.

 _~~Day~~ _ _Hells Yeah! – Plotting and allies_

Gabe smirks as he watches Ash and Jo – friends from the Roadhouse. Who knew that he and Cas would actually manage to get support for this; to become a part of this rag tangle band of Supers.

Ash, or mullet guy, has the power of electricity. He shoots it like webs out of his fingertips, crackling the air like lightning in a bottle.

Deano leans on the edge of his desk, not so inconspicuously nabbing fudge from the bowl, while surveying the room.

Leaning back in his chair, Gabe asks, “I get everyone’s power here, except you two.”

Kevin looks up at being addressed. Jo carries on fighting oblivious (or uncaring).

“It’s hard to explain, but the simple version is I can pretty much read every language in existence.” The kid scrunches up his face, “Without much trouble.”

Both him and Dean have the same reaction of ‘huh’. Seeing as Jo won’t answer him, he tries Dean instead.

“So what’s special about Jo.”

He notices the dirty glare, but ignores it like the mature adult he is.

“Reactions dude. Like Black Widow, but with more... Kill Bill.”

Poor Cassie overhears Dean and is stuck in a state of perpetual pop culture deficiency induced confusion. Gabe shakes his head. He continues to watch Jo.

“Nope, I just can’t see it.” He admits with a shrug.

Barely finishing the sentence, a knife whizzes through the air and he feels it skim the top of his head.

“Oh boy.” Dean says, moving faster than Gabe’s seen him out of the way.

He’s momentarily confused, and then he sees Jo stalking her way over.

“Throw something at me.” She says, deadpan and deadly serious. He notes the several knives on her person that make up the weapons selection on her suit.

“Jo?” She turns to address Dean, “Please try not to kill him.”

Cas doesn’t even defend him, the dirty traitor in a trenchcoat.

Whipping up a machete and two pen knives, he pushes them towards her with force. Get her while her back is turned, good going Gabe.

A blink.

That’s all he takes and he misses the action.

She’s in the air, one foot kicking the handle of the machete into the wall behind her. Next, she’s facing him. Catching the two smaller knives with ease, despite him throwing them at her at the same time, dropping them to the floor with an uninterested clang. No one else appears to be paying attention. Apparently having a curious mind singles him out here.

He whistles low, checking out the crack in the wall where the knife is sticking out of it.

“Colour me impressed.”

Time goes on.

Gabe gets bored.

All this planning for impending doom and apocalypse is so dull. He can’t even begin to attempt to describe it. So, he does what he does best. It starts out with firecrackers under peoples seats.

Cas glowers at him. He goes to sit next to his _boyfriend_ (well, not yet, but Gabe’s working on it), showing him something he’s found in the books.

Kevin nearly cries when his book explodes in his face. Non lethally of course, Gabe doesn’t want to kill anyone.

He does need something though. Even the room has somehow been turned into some kind of library/MI5 research base; there isn’t nearly enough alcohol for his liking. Or pretty women. Or fun.

He’s genuinely considering phoning Balthazar from down stairs.

He zones out, not frowning but definitely concentrating on Dean and Cas. On how close they’re sitting, the weird staring match they’re currently engaged in and the downright obvious glances they steal from each other when they think no one is looking. Grown men.

Really.

“Disgusting aren’t they.”

He jumps right out of his thoughts to see Charlie leaning where Dean was, watching them like he had been.

Jo joins them on the other side of his desk. He’s starting to like this ratio. Things might get a little less boring now.

She snorts, “Are you kidding me? How are they not fucking yet? _They’re eye fucking right god damn now._ ”

“Cassie’s totally gone too. He hasn’t paid _that_ much attention to anything other than books his whole life.”

Charlie sighs, a clear debate on the sharing of information playing on her features. “I know, you want to know the last time Dean hooked up with anybody?”

Snorting, Jo pushes off the glass and flips them a look over her shoulder. She doesn’t say anything. Just points to Dean and Cas, lining up her hands in a heart shape that fits both their head perfectly. How dense can two men be? Don’t get him wrong, he isn’t thrilled about thinking about his brother’s social, or sexual, life however if he doesn’t get it together Gabe is going to go out of his mind on the sexual tension _alone_.

“We have to get them together.” Charlie states.

He grunts his approval around a lollipop.

“We’ll call this, Operation Destiel,” she continues.

He grunts again, this time disagreeing. “Too noticeable,” he gets around the sweet.

“You’re right. Hmm... What about Jefferson Starships, because they’re totally gross and people have been shipping them for weeks.”

He smirks. “I think we have a winner.”

A ringing beside him makes Charlie leave, an equally devious grin on her face. He answers the phone, noting Charlie whispering to Jo and her own subtle thumbs up.

“You’ve reached Cake-a Erotica, this is Gabe, your Captain speaking.”

The guy on the other end of the line sounds awkwardly nervous. “Erhm... Right. I’m Sam, can you let me up?”

He forgot Dean had a brother coming.

“Sure thing Samsquatch, see you soon.”

Absently checking the time, he wonders what Deano’s brother must do for a living to be coming so late. He snaps his head up when the elevator pings.

Over 6 feet tall of glorious man strides in through the open doors; he waves stiltedly to everyone, only offering Dean and Cas a nod. This guy is all business though, Sammykins, clapping Kevin on the shoulder and settling straight down to work. He meets Dean’s eye. Dean gives him a defeated shrug.

Several hours later, Bobby shut his book, loud enough in the silence to startle everyone.

“We’re having a picture.”

No one says anything. No one has even moved a muscle.

“Huh?” Dean says unintelligently, a usual response from the man, Gabe’s come to note. It’s late and they’re all tired and Bobby Singer (though a force to be reckoned with) wants a photo?

“Why?” Gabe asks in lieu of Dean’s unhelpful input.

“Like it or not Floop, we’re in this together. Family don’t end in blood and this might be the last time we’re all together in the same place.”

Bobby’s statement hangs over them all.

No, not the whole ‘we’re probably going to die’ but the family thing... Gabe is actually touched. He hasn’t had a family except for Cassie since Mom and Dad died. Cas must have the same thought because he doesn’t have to look to feel his boring gaze on the side of his head.

He hides his feelings below drama. Lucifer’s impending escape isn’t the kind of time to get touchy feely. Though it didn’t stop Dean and Cas the idiots.

“Oh Bobby,” He puts his hand over his heart, “You’ve grown on me too, old man.”

Everyone sort of uncomfortably gathers in a clear part of the room. All except Kevin.

“Yo Kevin, get your ass over here.”

They’re arranging themselves in a line.

“I... I’ve only just met you guys.” His feet suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. Gabe knows the feeling.

“Are you helping to stop Lucifer from getting out of the cage?” Charlie says, shuffling in beside Jo.

“Well yeah-“

“Then get over here kid.” Benny calls, placing himself behind Charlie.

Ellen brakes apart from where they’re standing. “Don’t want to break it to you all, but we’re not going to fit if we stand like that.” She frowns, “And can’t we get a better backdrop than this.” She gestures to the walls covered in maps, symbols, images and right in the centre, Lucifer’s ugly mug.

An idea hits him.

Gabe winks at her; he snaps his fingers.

Bobby near shouts his grumble when a wheel chair is eased under him. He takes in the walls. “Why am I in this damned chair and why does the room now resemble what is unquestionably my living room?”

He pats his arm lovingly. “I have a great sense of humour, that’s why. And the woman asked for homely, so I give you... Homely!”

Sam sniggers from where he is next to Cas. Who isn’t standing with Dean, both Gabe and Charlie notice. They shake their heads at the same time.

Snapping into existence a camera and stand, he orders everyone to get in.

For some reason Garth has a bottle of vodka in his hand; he thought he was going to be the only one with a prop. The last thing he does is pop into his hand his blade. The custom made one that he and Cas got as presents from their parents when they were kids.

“Alright family, smile.”

He doesn’t though. He makes sure he’s pulling the most badass stance he can. Charlie turns to face him right before the camera clicks a few times. They all burst out laughing.

Quickly gathering around the camera, they look over the photo.

“Oh my god, Gabe what are you even doing?” Charlie asks between gasps of laughter.

“It’s called looking awesome, something I wouldn’t expect a mortal such as yourself to understand.” He knocks her arm with his own.

“I don’t think Cas got the memo to smile.” Dean snorts.

“I was not prepared. At least I was actually looking into the camera lens, however.” Cas retorts, moving away from the crowd back to the books.

“Kevin, since when were you more photogenic than all the girls in the picture?” Jo huffs, without heat.

“Are you kidding me? Bobby is modelling that chair like a pro.” Kevin relaxes, leaning against him.

“Shaddap ya idjit.” Grousing, Bobby pushes himself out of the chair. He walks back over to the table, lifting his hat up to scratch his head. They all share a look at the soft smile on the old coots face. Hell yeah, if they get out of this alive, Bobby isn’t going to live that one down.

“Loving the face brother,” Benny punches Dean on the arm for good measure.

“Ash, why do you look so tall and... Are you posing!?” Sam interjects, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Sorry we don’t all come in XXL Sam. At least my hair looks good in this shot, Garth, where did you even find the drink my friend. I need some alcohol yeah!”

Ash drags Garth off with him. Honestly, Gabe’s tempted to follow.

The only ones left are him and Ellen. She holds her hand out for the camera. He takes one last glance at the image of the makeshift gang they’ve put together. One of the rarer sappy smiles takes over his face; he hands the camera over.

As he goes back to his desk, he hears Ellen whisper something gently behind him.

“We’re a family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened to this chapter?! Idek
> 
> So much dialogue. Be jealous of my mad photoshop skills heh
> 
> Comment, go on. I know you want to (:


	16. Humans are so... Puny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigils, symbols, meanings. 
> 
> The odds seem forever stacked up against them. 
> 
> Some things become clear, others remain shrouded in mystery. 
> 
> Dean and Cas are cuties and everyone needs coffee.
> 
> There may be a waffle iron involved at some point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I actually update sooner than normal :D 
> 
> I've got the next couple of chapters all planned out (i say all i mean mostly// not at all) - by golly should we all be worried.
> 
> Your comments, kudos or just taking the time to read my bipolar updates mean the world to me. I can't even begin to thank you all enough.
> 
> Enough of my blabbering.
> 
> There are so many points of view in this (omg so much happens in 4000 words ok, im sorry, if you get confused (or want to tell me something you think i should change) the comments thingy is right there friends.
> 
> Thanks again for the comments and kudos.
> 
> I shall fix any mistakes.

“I got it.” Kevin nearly shouts, standing with such haste that his chair falls backwards.

They gather around him, waiting for him to explain. Dean instantly feels bad. The kid is rubbing his head, with an added grimace, staring down at his notepad with a look of relief and wonder. Having the power of languages isn’t all the fun and games that he had first thought. It’s the same kind of face Sam pulls when he’s excited though; Dean pats Kevin on the shoulder proudly.

“So the gist of the translations on the outside is warding. Basically, once you’re inside the parameter of the prison,” He fumbles without breaking concentration on his notes to tap the blue prints of the building, “All Supers are powerless. It’s a block: physical. There are also some protection symbols. No power can penetrate the walls of the prison.”

He finally looks up. Nervously, he flusters, “There’s a lot more I need to translate but I figured it’s a star-“

“Kevin.” Dean interjects, stopping him from rambling, “You’ve done great. This is an awesome start and we can work with this. Let us know what more you get as soon as you can.”

He nods gratefully. Quickly picking up his chair, Kevin dutifully gets straight back to work.

Jo stands from where she was leaning on her hands. She frowns. “So what you’re really saying is that once we get inside, we’ll be about as useful as a human?”

“Humans are so... Puny.” Charlie cackles from the other side of the room.

“It’s petty, dumbass.” Ash retaliates, shooting her with a zap of electricity to which she squeaks in surprise.

Dean’s face remains deceptively blank. Yes, human. Powerless, weak and susceptible. It’s worse for him; if anyone gets hurt, he can’t do anything until they’re outside the prison gates. The possibility of death is gaining in its reality. In itself, it opens a whole new can of worms. They haven’t discussed strategies; nothing has been said about who’s getting involved (physically) and who will be holding the line from a distance he considers to be safe. It worries him inside. The idea niggles away at his thoughts, the parasite clinging to his senses.

He’s brought out of it by a nudge from Cas.

“Dean and I fight without the advantage of powers.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, he temporarily postpones his other train of thought.

“I’m pretty sure being able to zap out of the way is an advantage, Cas.”

Cas seems to consider this, “Yes, but when it actually comes down to inflicting damage, neither of our powers aid us.”

Dean rubs a hand along his chin. The scruff on his palm reminds him he needs to shave – trivially. “What you’re getting at is that you and me are badasses?”

He nods decisively. Huh. Warmth spreads through his chest, the knowledge that he is not completely useless in someone’s eyes blooming hope in his heart. He shuts that down faster than the discussions about death. Hope is a childish and fruitless endeavour.

“Awww, ain’t he adorable.” Bobby lifts his hat at him, his amusement hidden by his beard.

His eyes widen as he realises where he is.

Benny and Ash have gone off to do their respective jobs but everyone, their dumb goofy smiles and prying eyes boring at him, is watching him and Cas. He fights the blush creeping up his neck and clears his throat. Cas continues to be oblivious to any human emotion with the exception of confusion which he accurately portrays with that ~~adorable~~ head tilt.

“What that means is that you guys need to get practising.” Dean says, instantly reminding them that firstly, they are a bunch of dicks for looking at him like that and secondly, the fricking apocalypse is coming and they’re getting all chick-flick over some dumb comment he made.

Jo suddenly doesn’t look so smug.

“What?”

“You heard Cas, me and him are used to fighting without our powers. You,” He points at Jo, “And you and you and you,” he lists them, Ash, Benny and Garth, “Need to practise.”

He doesn’t include Sammy, Bobby or Ellen due to the fact he knows they can kick ass just fine. Well, he knows they can all beat a guy six different ways, it’s just he needs to be certain they can handle not having their powers to support them. Charlie, Gabe and Kevin are not (he has righteously decided) going to be getting any closer than this building. They’re greatest strength is technology – they need eyes and ears, probably back up from Gabe at a pinch, keeping a spectators view for them.

Now that he thinks about it, it’s going to be nearly impossible to simulate not having their powers. Seeing as Jo’s is second nature, you can’t control reflexes after all, there isn’t a way to prepare her.

He zones out on Castiel.

They could fight them; act as bodies for them to practise on. Weapons would need to be tried out too. How will they get weapons into the prison?

 _How are we going to get_ ourselves _into the prison?!_

An idea snaps him right back into the room.

“Kevin, can we essentially cordon off a part of the room by drawing these symbols to serve as a training ground.”

Sam seems to consider it, mouth dropping down into his impressed face.

“Yeah, yeah that should work.”

He shuffles through some of the pictures, handing over the ones that he’s already copied out and translated.

“These block powers, the strongest is that.”

It’s a pentagram within a circle, surrounded by squiggly lines of sigils. He presumes it is Enochian, Sam mentioned at some point, so probably holds some freaky meaning. As long as it works, he supposes.

“Gabe, can you,” he waves his hand in the direction of the beds. It’s the only part of the room that isn’t covered in some kind of computer, paper or book.

With a flick of his wrist, the beds are lined up against the walls and are turned shiny, mirrors Dean belatedly recognises. They waste a second in impressed silence, staring at their own reflections from afar. Clicking his fingers, the sigil from the page draws itself on the floor in the cleared space.

“Benny, you and me are up. Cas you can take Jo.”

Rightly so, Cas doesn’t bow or complain at the near feral grin Jo shoots him. Jo can hold her own and when she’s angry, she can be downright scary – just like her mother. Dean and Cas step into the sigil first.

Flexing his fingers, Dean waits to see the glow. He can’t feel anything, except maybe a void where something should be. He shrugs at Cas, who in return rolls his shoulders and then stands still.

Cas doesn’t move for a solid 5 seconds.

“Cas, buddy, you’re still here, get that constipated look off your face.” He holds back a laugh, watching as Cas’ face scrunches up.

“Thank you Dean.” He moves his shoulders again, “I... The feeling of not having wings is foreign and unpleasant.”

That’s the last bit of talking that is done for a while.

Benny crashes into Dean, tackling him full force to the ground. Rolling them over, Dean pins Benny down, his forearm pressing into his neck. Benny punches once, he dodges, pulling his legs up to kick Dean off. He lands with an ‘oof’ a metre or so away.

If this fight had taken place for real, outside of this trap – such as the first time they met – Benny could have ripped his face off. Literally. He’s kind of like a vampire bat... Ok, bad analogy. But he is kinda batty, Dean muses while he pants softly on the floor, what with the fangs and heightened sense of smell and sight.

They both smile as Benny helps him up.

“Still got it.” He smirks.

“Shaddap.” Dean pushes him out, motioning for Garth to come over.

Meanwhile, Cas isn’t faring much better. Although without the added reflexes, Jo is less efficient at taking Cas down, she is still formidable. Of course, Dean made sure that Jo had removed all her knives before fighting Cas. No need to cut the man up.

Cas doesn’t see her as ‘female’ or a ‘woman’, he sees a sparring partner. Blocking two of her jabs, he lands a (light) blow to her ribs. She puffs out her breath, blowing the hair that’s fallen across her face up. They circle one another, holding their guard hands up. She goes to strike. He attempts to block. She instantly drops to a crouch and side swipes him.

A cocky grin on her face, she has a hand held out to help him up before he can really appreciate the fact that he’s fallen down.

Ash struts into the ring and it starts all over once more.

When Dean and Garth are finished, Garth pulls him into a hug.

He chuckles, “You know, for a scrawny little dude, you sure pack a punch.”

Garth’s eyes go very soft and sad. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

And he walks away.

Anger burns in his veins. How could a man like Garth, kind, quirky Garth, not be complimented before. The guy is the nicest person he knows for fucks sake! Even when he’s seen him against real bad guys, he’s not malicious about it. He’s always smiling.

This is what’s wrong with the god damn world.

Good people, including the people he has the privilege to call family, don’t get the recognition they deserve. He’s going to make sure to remind Garth how awesome he is every time he sees him, maybe help him find a girl. If anyone deserves it, it’s the guy with the sock puppets.

As soon as they’re done, they start up again. Gabe pops into existence some rubber knives and bb guns.

About half way through, they’re having more fun than actual practise. The two fights merge into four.

Dean disarms Benny and Cas fake stabs Dean. Jo takes Garth’s knife and knocks down Ash and Dean (again) before her and Cas dissolve into laughter at the floppy sword fight they’re engaged in.

Out of nowhere, the elevator pings.

 “Samuel Henry Winchester.” A sharp voice barks.

Everyone stops what they’re doing. Varying degrees of surprise are apparent on all of their faces; none more so than Sam, who drops the knife and strides toward the angry woman in the elevator.

Her hands are resting on her hips in the universal sign of ‘shit is going to go down’.

“Jess,” Sam bitch faces him like _he’s_ responsible for Jess being here as he crosses the final space between them. Then his face does the thing where he can’t place his emotions and he is secretly plotting how to make Jess leave. “Baby, what are you doing here?”

“Don’t you ‘baby’ me,” She scolds, shy of teasing, with anger still underlying. Walking out of the lift, her mouth drops as she finally takes in the expanse of the room. Unsurprisingly, everyone is still frozen in place. Dean feels awkward, almost as though they are witnessing a private argument. Sam must think so too, because he flounders with his hands to try and encourage Jess back over to the lift doors.

“You call me, saying you’ve got to help your brother out.” She offers Dean an apologetic glance.

Huffing indignantly, Dean mutters under his breath. “Sammy is the one who needs the help.”

Cas’ lips twitch in an amused smirk.

“When in reality, you’re trying to save the whole city from Lucifer!”

Sam is understandably speechless.

Slowly breaking from the spell, the rest of the rooms inhabitants go back to what they were doing. Dean grinned when he could hear Gabe whistling softly ‘Boss ass Bitch’.

“And you didn’t think to tell me so I can help?”

She’s close to Sam now (what? Dean’s gotta keep an eye on his baby bro’s fiancé) her finger pocking into his chest. It’s utterly ridiculous, given that Sam quite literally towers over Jess. And yet, her stance is so undeniably in control, Sam looks small, a kicked puppy expression on his face.

“I was trying to keep you safe.” He sighs.

Oh no. Dean _knows_ that look. Jess is so screwed.

Sam’s eyes soften indefinitely more...

Jess buckles, pulling him into a hug.

His gangly limbs wrap around her, his head leaning on top of her hair. Exhaling, Sam closes his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he looks at peace.

“Sorry, Jess.”

They break apart.

“Good. Now, what can I do?”

Jess is set with Kevin, being that her family taught her Latin as a child. Dean exhales at that thought. Who actively chooses to teach their kid Latin anyway? It was enough trying to juggle school, having a power and training to be a soldier. Sammy sure does know how to pick them. That being said, he watches fondly as Jess relaxes with Kevin, Sam’s shoulders losing a broody and pensive line he hadn’t noticed was bunched there. _Man, he’s so whipped._

The clicking of keyboards and rustling of papers gradually builds up on him. He doesn’t realise he’s just flexing his powers: lights on, fingers glow, lights off, fingers go dark. He repeats the cycle. The noise (or lack of) drills into his head. He’s going to go insane before he even steps near Lucifer.

“Let’s get some music on shall we?” Charlie suddenly suggests.

He’s instantly on edge.

“Badass Network always has good music.” Cas declares.

Jo and Ash barely stifle their giggles.

Dean shoots them a warning glare.

“Something tells me they aren’t going to be playing any music today bucco.”

Cas frowns, walking towards Ash’s desk.

Conveniently, Sam grabs Dean by the arm and drags him back over to the fighting ring. He swipes at him roughly, making him lose track of the conversation.

 

Ash looks up from what he’s doing. Silently, Cas stands there, waiting for Ash to explain. He doesn’t ask but for some reason Ash feels obliged to tell.

“Jo and me are the hosts.”

He looks surprised, flicking his blue eyes between him and Jo. She notices; smiles and waves. Cas’ body visibly tenses.

“I knew I recognised your voices.” He squints at him, accusatory. “You know who Led Wayne is.”

Again, not a question. A statement. Nervously, Ash casts a glance at Dean. He’s preoccupied with Sam, dodging blows and taking him to the ground. Ash swallows. This isn’t really his identity to reveal. Thankfully, Jo strides over to join them.

“We do. If we tell you though, you can’t freak out.”

“I’m not getting involved in this, Jo he’ll kick your _ass_.” Ash says, putting his hands up in defeat and going back to his laptop. Charlie has linked their screens so he can help screen shot all the symbols and keep an eye on the inmates.

She tugs on Cas’ sleeve. “You’re not going to freak are you?”

Seeming to snap out of his stupor, Cas shakes his head in conformation – no.

“Oh my hair, please don’t do this at _my desk._ ”

Scowling, Jo pulls Cas to the side so they’re by Gabe’s desk instead. She stands on her tip toes, Cas briefly puzzled at her actions to whisper in his ear.

_Dean Winchester_

Completely and utterly, wholly and totally, he blanks. Dean... But how could?

“Fuck,” Jo hisses, waving a hand in front of Cas’ unfocussed gaze, “Fuck, Gabe I broke him.”

“You have got to teach me how to do that.” Is what Gabe offers in response.

Jess sidles up beside them. She takes stock of the three of them, then pinches Cas’ arm. He turns his head slightly to frown at her.

“There we go,” she pats is cheek.

Cas ignores the gesture. He can’t be. No, Led Wayne is not Dean Winchester. Daring a glance, Cas looks at Dean. He’s pinning Sam down, waiting for Sam to surrender. But if he was... That means-

Realisation dawns on him like a bright light in his eyes.

“There we go,” Charlie chirps, “Yup, he wrote 4 am for you.”

Then again, with this new information, that would imply that Dean, loyal, fierce, beautiful _Dean_ , feels something stronger than friendship towards him. Should he tell Dean how he feels too? It nags at his gut, the more time they spend together, and at some moments he has to physically restrain himself due to its inappropriate timing.

“So,” Gabe’s face turns from mischievous to serious, “You gunna tell him?”

Now there are four faces looking to him expectantly. He’s a soldier, not some cherub. There hasn’t been a time when a relationship was even remotely interesting to him. Until now. The thoughts are back. His subconscious will at least entertain the idea that he _wants_ to be with Dean.

“No.”

It’s one syllable. It’s a decision.

His feelings will have to wait.

Charlie doesn’t put any music on.

 

They’re assembled around the table. The table is full. Dean doesn’t actually remember a time when he had more than two people close enough to him to actually gather at a table – he probably doesn’t even have as many friends as there are chairs here.

“If we remove the sigils, _everyone_ will have their powers.” Dean voices some of his thoughts, the bickering and tossing of paper stopping to pay attention to what he said.

“True. And that could lead to a mass break out.” Garth supplies.

He leans back in his chair, clasping his hands together. He side eyes Bobby.

“Any ideas?”

Bobby tilts his head to the side, making the facial equivalent of a shrug.

“What if we could find a reversal spell or symbol that we could use to overturn the prison sigils?” Sam suggests, his arm wrapped firmly around Jess. A spike of jealousy almost spikes in his gut. Almost. Cas chose to sit beside him; Dean will take as much as he can get.

“That won’t work,” Kevin sighs, looking up from his notes. There are bags weighing down his lower eyelids. “I’m not through all of the ones on the outside yet. We don’t even know if a sigil like that exists.”

Ellen, seeing Kevin and pretty much everyone else’s half awake state, stands up. “I’m going to make coffee, who wants?”

All their hands go up.

“Ok... So we can’t remove the symbols or paint new ones, but we already knew that.” Jo emphasises her point by showing them an already forming bruise on her arm.

“More importantly, since that whole shebang was pointless, how are you fruitcakes going to get in?” Gabe pulls his lolli from his mouth with an obnoxious smack of his lips, “I mean, you can’t just waltz in guns blazing.”

He and Cas share a private look. They both look concerned.

“We can smuggle it in.” Ash shrugs, not at all worried about that being an issue.

Benny sniggers sceptically. “And how do you suppose we pull that off?”

He blows out his breath, and shrugs. It’s not a comforting answer.

“Ash is right though, Benny, we _can_ get stuff in. I didn’t get caught hacking government files for nothing you know.”

Dean nods at Charlie, for the 1000th time that week appreciating her awesomeness. They can find a way to get weapons inside, and any other materials they might need. The main problem is that they’re wading into this blind, groping the darkness of a Supers breakout with their hands tied by human laws.

“Still doesn’t answer how we all get in... Unnoticed?” Benny puts forward.

Cas stares at him from across the table. “You want to break in during a prison break out?”

It’s a valid point that earns a few laughs. The night is weighing heavy on all of them. Ellen returns with coffee. Dean swears he felt it in his pours when caffeine was present in the room. They settle into silence, drinking their coffees and contemplating their options. The few and far between options they had on offer.

Music has Charlie barrelling back to her station.

Dean pauses. “Is that... The Game of Thrones theme tune?!”

“Yup,” She grins at him, fixing her attention on her computer. “Hey, you and Cas free tonight?”

Both of them shoot her a weird look.

“Robbery.” She gives in explanation.

Right, just because Lucifer might be breaking out of the cage doesn’t mean crime pulls to a grinding halt, unfortunately.

She rattles off the address and they’re gone in an instant.

 

The rest of the people at the table glance at each other without speaking.

Gabe leans back in the chair so that it is close to being horizontal.

“10 bucks says they kiss before we fight Lucifer.”

“I raise you 15 to them becoming official before the end of the week.” Benny quips.

They both laugh.

“I’d _pay_ them 25 bucks to stop pining over one another, the damn idjits.” Bobby grouses.

The bets continue well into the near hundreds; suddenly everyone has a stake in various stages of Dean and Cas’ relationship.

“Charlie,” Kevin asks, taking a break from research.

“Mhmm.”

“What is that?” He points to the black box that had gone off earlier.

Gabe is an honest man, no really, and he was definitely intrigued as well. Particularly since there had been no hint as to what Samsquatch’s power is yet.

It makes it all the more perplexing when Sam starts explaining.

“It’s to do with my power,” He takes a quick look at Jess’ reassuring hand on his arm before continuing, “I have wanted to be normal since I was 12 years old. Things never really go our way though.” Sam chuckles humourlessly. “I’m a psychic, kinda.”

That does explain a lot. Not about the box, but about Sam himself. He could pass for normal, Gabe thinks, if it were not for his gargantuan size.

“I get really bad migraines when a vision comes through. It was getting so bad me and Jess split for a bit. Dean had been trying to find a way to stop me from feeling like a freak since I can remember. One day, he comes to me and tells me to hold still. Dumb jerk injects me with the little capsule thing at the back of my neck.”

He shrugs.

This family has a complex for shrugging.

“It transmits the visions to the box; Charlie created an algorithm to decipher it and bam. I’m pretty much normal.”

Sam’s reverence of normality is admirable though tedious. Normal is just so...

Normal.

Gabe snorts at his own intellectual aspect of Sam’s mini speech. He’s starting to think he has an attention disorder.

 

“That wasn’t so bad.” Dean says, tying the unconscious guy’s hands behind his back. It wasn’t a job that required two people in reality. The idiot was an opportunist at best.

Cas nods. “Are you ready to return?”

He’s about to say yes when he realises that he hadn’t gotten Sam and Jess anything as an engagement present. The brother of the year award is not going to him. and it hasn’t been for the past 20 years running.

“I need to make a stop first.”

Obliging Dean’s strange request without question, Cas flits them to the middle of a department store. They search in near darkness, Dean trying to rack his brain for an inkling on what to get them.

He stops in front of the waffle irons.

It’s as good an idea as any.

Carefully leaving the money on top of the box, with a scrawled note of apology on a sweet wrapper (he’s going to kill Gabe) he’d found in his pocket, he holds the present in his hands. They fly back, Cas’ hand an almost inconceivable presence at the small of his back, his fingers twitching when they land in case he needs to support Dean. Not that the waffle iron is that heavy. It’s not an unwelcome thought, Cas’ hands on him. The heat pools there until he moves away towards Sam and Jess.

He lacks finesse in every way imaginable, handing it to Jess who’s sprawled across Sam on the chair.

“Dean?”

“It’s an engagement present. I kinda suck at this, so yeah. Congrats.”

Sam inspects the box, peeking over Jess’ blonde hair in his face. He smiles, turning to Dean.

“Thanks jerk.”

The bitterness of their last conversation finally dissipates. They’re good, and that’s all that matters to Dean right now.

“You’re welcome, bitch.”

People start making their way to the beds. Garth, followed by Bobby, Ellen and Benny are the first to go. Jo protests like a child that she isn’t tired around a yawn. She ends up falling asleep in a chair not long after.

Gabe has put a large flat screen TV on the wall opposite Kevin. It’s easier for Charlie to show him the sigils and lore she finds that way. Except, Charlie has exhausted that avenue of research for now, so she’s been monitoring the inmates instead; Dean notices Charlie’s shift in concentration and decides, seeing as he has nothing better to do and trying to flick pen lids into Cas’ pocket is an impossible game, to see what she’s doing.

 “Charlie, update?” Dean asks, dropping into a crouch beside her. His knees pop and he winces.

“Lucifer’s currently performing a very impressive rendition of the Rolling Stones - Paint It Black.” She replies nonchalantly without deviating her attention away from the monitor.

“You're kidding.”

She shakes her head, pressing a few buttons so her screen is projected on the big TV. He walks over to get a better view.

The man flicks onto the screen. Unlike what most people preconceive him to be, Lucifer is relatively young, his short grey hair spiked and his face, not so much withered as full of life. Dean can see it though, the hatred and anger bubbling close to the surface of his skin. Considering he’s been locked up for 10 years, he’s surprised that his skin hasn’t actually split and burst, unable to contain the malevolent intent any longer. He’s perched on the edge of the bed in his room, looking, jarringly, directly at the camera. He throws his head back, pelting out the instrumental parts too. This guy belongs in an asylum, not a prison. _What’s the difference?_

“I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky  
I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black!”

He crows, incredibly pleased with himself.

Dean can’t help but hum along.

Shooting him a pointed bitch face, Dean relents.

“What? This song’s a classic.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

Turning the large display off, Charlie goes back to scanning the many screens ahead of her. Dean sits down beside Kevin. He can help. Or maybe he’s procrastinating having to sleep.

 

“Cas, can I speak to you for a second?” Gabe pulls his brother from his chair. It wasn’t a question, not really. He just needed an unsuspicious way to have a private chat with his brother.

“Have you heard from Zachariah?”

Cas beats him to the punch line.

“No, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

His face remains deceptively impassive.

“You think he’s plotting something?”

“It is not of import, we need to focus on stopping Lucifer from escaping.”

He stares up at his little brother. When did he get so grown up?

Snorting, he pats him on the shoulder. It won’t help them in the slightest, but he voices both their unsaid thoughts anyway.

“Unless he’s a part of it.”

 

There’s a shit storm rolling in on the horizon.

And, for once, it has nothing to do with the weather.


	17. Spanners In The Works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who needs a plan when you have a spanner?
> 
> Dean, that doesn't even make sense.
> 
> It doesn't have to, Sammy. That's the beauty of a spanner.
> 
> I am still very confused.
> 
> (shut up and kiss me, Cas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea so many people liked this story (and you've all said such nice things can i just cry for a minute please and thank you)
> 
> I'm changing the rating MCD - thanks so much for your opinions on that, even if some of you don't want anyone to die :>
> 
> I'm kinda left speechless, so just let me know what you think of this chapter?
> 
> I love you all. No joke. 
> 
> I will fix the mistakes, sorry in advance for any you find.
> 
> Thanks again for the comments, kudos, bookmarks, comments - did i say that already :*

Fire. Fingers of smoke stretch towards him; the flames lick out from Sammy’s room.

“Mom! Dad?”

It sounds like his voice. Maybe it is.

Then he’s choking. He has to protect Sammy, Dad’s orders, so he curls around him. They’re surrounded by pulsing orange and red, it’s angry and close. The heat burns his skin and he inhales plumes of dark, dark smoke. He’s suffocating. Sammy won’t stop crying. He’s telling him it will be ok, that Dad will save them. He always saves them.

Only the flames are getting closer. And what’s that? The grating slashes of knife edges together. No, he won’t get Sammy. He won’t –

Gasping, Dean sits bolt upright on his blow up bed. It squeaks and puffs out at the movement. His throat is dry and his head is clammy.

So the last thing he expects to see is Garth, sat cross-legged across from him, playing with his powers.

“Bad dream?” He says. Garth knows everything; he’s about as close as you can get to a read-between-the-lines machine. You could completely change your whole attitude and body language and Garth would still be able to call you on your bullshit and tell you exactly how you’re really feeling. “You know, if you stopped hunting for the answer in the bottom of a bottle or the last fist of a fight, you might sleep better.”

Stupid Garth, being right as always. Not that Dean will admit it: no freaking way.

All Dean can do is nod. He feels like a child, but Garth doesn’t act in a way that makes him feel chastised or dumb for having a nightmare. He regards him slowly. Nodding to himself, he gives Dean one of his smiles.

“Watch.”

Eyes fixed on Garth’s hands, Dean watches him close his eyes and take a deep breath.

Dean feels it, static in the air as Garth draws the energy from around them to his hands and fingers. They begin to glow, not as Dean’s would in muted yellow, but bright blue tinged light. It shines, so much so that Dean has to briefly look away in order to adjust. Garth opens his eyes and grins, sticking his tongue out now in concentration.

In the gloominess of the room, Garth sits, a God, a lighthouse, among the shadows. Suddenly, the light explodes out into shapes and figures. A thousands stars are trapped in his hands, being forced to crackle and bounce like fireworks on the fourth of July. Dean watches, mesmerised just as he was the first time, his own personal light display.

The explosions simmer down to a dog running. He can almost imagine the yaps from its shiny open mouth. It trips, morphing into a gun, which goes off, the bullet shooting towards him before abruptly stopping. Garth breathes heavily, perspiration trickling down his forehead.

Wobbly, Dean manoeuvres himself from his bed, pulsing his hands slightly. He catches Garth on the shoulder, healing him of the ache he went through to calm him after his nightmare.

“Thanks Garth,” He pats the spot twice, and then he stretches to his full height. A pop and a groan later, he shuffles to the main table.

Kevin has fallen asleep, his face mashed into the many papers surrounding him like an ant hill.

He whistles to Gabe, knowing full well that the man doesn’t sleep.

“A pillow and a coffee over here,” Lowering his voice, in order to not wake the others, he takes his place opposite Kevin.

“What am I? Your maid?” Gabe grumbles, begrudgingly clicking his fingers and popping the two things into existence.

“Nah, I would have to pay you for that.” Dean sniggers back, inwardly pleased with Gabe’s continued muttering. He watches the brown liquid swirl around his cup for a moment, inhaling the scent. It flutters through his bloodstream, his fingers warm from the porcelain when he rubs his eyes.

Charlie swivels his chair round. He nearly dumps the coffee over them both in surprise.

“What the hell Charlie?!” He hisses, placing the cup down to shake his hand where a few searing droplets did hit his skin.

“I’ve figured it out.”

Dean scrunches his face up at her. “Figured what out?”

“You.”

Dean closes his eyes and rakes a hand backwards through his hair. The strands are still tacky from sweating. This is not a conversation for somewhere like here with so little alcohol in his system. It’s unnervingly become a hobby, almost, for Charlie; she will rattle off some crazy theory about something or other. He has been the subject more than once. She is playing dirty by doing this here.

“Charlie-”

She cuts him off before he can even start complaining, another gift of hers.

“Dean, I have known you for quite a few years now and I have come to some very basic conclusions.” Pausing for breath or dramatic effect she continues. Gabe has joined the table as well, too. Candy eating betrayer.

“You seem to have convinced yourself that you are a burden to everyone else. You have all these little... Problems, that you don’t even address because you’re too busy worrying about how my date with Dorothy went or whether or not Sam and Jess are going to make the rent this month.”

Standing from her chair, she continues only drawing in her hands to emphasise her actions. Dean inwardly groans. It’s both humiliating and not helping the niggling voice of low self esteem; honestly it’s just downright pitiful.

“You want to save everyone, even if it’s going to kill you in the process. Strangers, family, Supers, it never seems to matter to you. And you never complain. I mean you wine like a mandrake for a while about the pain but you don’t stop being Hunter. You don’t stop helping people.”

Charlie turns to him in a sudden movement, her eyes sad and rueful. “When we first met, I asked you how many people you had to save. Do you remember what you said?”

“All of them.” He mutters eyes downcast. Is he ashamed of that? No. Although his is ashamed that he has actually managed to fail that quota. There have been mistakes; times when he wasn’t physically strong enough and then there have been the hunts that he was too late to make any difference.

“S _till_ just now, _you_ wake up from a nightmare and the first thing you do is heal Garth and order a pillow for Kevin.”

He thinks she’s finally done when no, she starts up again in an infinite loop of Dean’s character flaws.

“And _that_ is the reason you won’t simply ask Cas out. You’re so busy thinking of other people’s happiness and safety; you don’t take two seconds to consider your own. Even though you two could make each other really happy and you’re practically boyfriends already. I mean, you actually _like like_ Cas and he is totally gone on you and if you can’t see it then I don’t-“

“Charlie stop.” He murmurs. How can he explain it to them? This isn’t some movie, his life has never been like a movie, and these gloomy silhouettes will always be trapped in his mind, he doesn’t want to put that on them. But they won’t stop; he needs them to in order to protect Cas from... Himself.

It must be that his voice went lower and not louder that her mouth clicks shut.

“I’m gunna say this once, alright, and it stays between us three.” He points at them both, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and pointedly not looking at either of them. “Cas is...”

Now there are some adjectives he could find here that would not be entirely appropriate to say in front of Cas’ brother.

“Smart. Brilliant. He works in his brother’s multimillion dollar building, as a fucking accountant of all things. And me? I work 2 jobs and still live in an apartment with a mattress for a bed and more mystery stains than I know how to deal with. You say you know me? Then you’ll also know I’m not good luck. I’m not _worth_ the trouble and I’m not going to drag Cas down with me when all hell breaks loose.”

Pretty much for the entirety of his life he’s been searching for love in the bottom of a bottle. Once or twice he’s been certain he’s found it. Then came Angel – Cas.

He stares at the ceiling, willing his eyes not to moisten now.

“I’m poison. And for once, I want to not let down someone I care a lot about, so can you please, _please_ , let it drop?” His voice drops again. “Cas deserves better.”

The sound of liquid splashing on concrete draws all their attention.

Cas is standing, thoroughly debauched, fresh coffee forgotten and tipped to the side to the point where it’s aimlessly leaking out. Dean swallows, a bead of sweat tracking down his forehead. Cas takes a thoughtful step, tentatively placing the coffees down; all the while never breaking his eye contact with Dean. At the same time, Charlie and Gabe freeze. A spell has been cast and suddenly his whole world filters down to blue eyes and a tan coat.

“Cas?”

He doesn’t say anything, touching Dean’s forehead quickly and silently. With a rush of air Dean feels the familiar surge of a change in altitude and temperature. It’s a good thing he sleeps fully dressed these days.

He refuses to look at Cas, stepping away from him. His mind screams at him to react, feel something, but the cold stab of impending rejection and his own inability to keep what he loves safe makes him feel empty. It would be easy to give in now, to give Cas what he’s holding back.

Gravel crunches behind him.

“You are infuriating.” He’s close; Dean can feel him like an omnipresence behind him.

Snorting half heartedly, he replies. “That’s not the most colourful description I’ve ever received.”

Cas whips him round so their face to face, so far into each other’s space that he is getting an up close view of the 5 o’clock shadow that holds Cas’ chin permanently captive. He can sense Cas’ hesitation. He’s holding back too. This isn’t a line Cas wants to cross, Dean mentally sighs.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved? You think of me above you? Dean, I have not known struggle, not truly ever in my life. _I_ made a deal with Crowley to get rid of Raphael, which turned out to mean that an equally bad person is in charge. I have made countless errors. And I now-“

He grabs Cas by the lapels of his trenchcoat, effectively shutting him up with a press on his lips against Cas’.

He can’t stand there and listen to Cas degrade himself like that. What no one seems to be able to understand is that humans make mistakes. Dean isn’t human, his mistakes get people killed and hurt; his whole life he has let people down. Not Cas. Cas lives up to his stupid Super name.

Cas gets the memo almost instantly, hands resting on his waist to keep Dean close, as though he’s afraid Dean will pull away and leave him – like he has the capacity to do so. Licking the seal of Dean’s lips, Dean hesitantly opens his mouth, allowing Cas to push him against the rooftop stairwell wall and deepen the kiss. It’s funny, the still coherent part of his brain thinks, and that moments ago they were teetering on the edge of this. Fear, of something new, something unpredictable, stopping them from getting to this point. What a point it is.   

Cas tastes like lightning and wet grass. It’s everything their first kiss wasn’t and Dean pushes back with his own tongue, closing his eyes and holding onto Cas with everything he has.

They break away for air, but they don’t move away from one another.

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that Cas.” Dean breathes softly against his lips, resting his head on Cas’ shoulder. The muscles shift as Cas encircles him completely, thunderous wings arching over them.

He grumbles back into Dean’s ear, “Hypocrite.”

Hand resting over Cas’ heart, Dean takes a deep breath. “Cas are we...”

Are they what?

Dating? Dean scoffs at the idea. Why would Cas want to tie himself down to Dean long term, sure he’s a pretty face, they’d probably have some wild sex, but what Dean boils down to is a blunt instrument with Daddy issues.

Cas tips his chin up, expression as soft as Dean’s ever seen it.

“I want to be with you, if you are comfortable with that.” He says in the same tone as he does with everything. Signing away his life in a single monotone statement that is growled out with conviction.

“Till the end of the line?” Dean turns his face into Cas’ neck, mouthing at the stubbly skin that he finds. He feels rather than sees Cas cock his head to the side.

Chuckling, he pulls back. “We still need to work on that.”

They’re still pressed together when Cas flies them back.

“Yay! You’re both not dead.” Charlie shouts, Gabe giving them both a knowing smirk.

“I see you and my bro have sorted out your differences. Keep it PG with the family yeah?” Gabe is also giving the sleeping companions of the room a menacing look that Dean can’t place the origin of.

Dean flips him off without effort, too content for the first time in a while.

Is he freaking out? Of course. It’s in his nature to remind himself that Cas deserves better than him and, with their lifestyle, the relationship is doomed to fail. The selfish part of him clings onto the faith he has in Cas. A faith that grows stronger every day. And for now, given the circumstances, he’s going to give into the selfish part on himself that wants to curl up beside Cas – yes he’s a little spoon alright – and remind himself that one of the most badass and kind people he’s ever met is choosing him.

“Now that you guys are going to be gross with purpose, this might be the bad time to mention that you might want to check your phone, King of Hell wants a _harmless_ chat.”He doesn’t miss the unease in her tone. He doesn’t like it either.

Sighing, he draws himself away from Cas. He joins the table, watching Kevin sleep as he turns the phone around in his hand. Despairingly unlocking it, he sees the ‘1 missed call from King of Asshats’ on the screen. It draws a laugh from him, in hindsight. He looks at Cas, then back to the phone and, closing his eyes, presses call.

“Squirrel!” The British asshole answers after three dialling tones, “You missed my call. Should I be jealous?”

He rolls his eyes, fixating on the smooth ceiling panels. “What have you got Crowley?”

“You’re no fun... I come with news.”

“You going to show and tell?”

“Meet me at our usual place. Tomorrow at 2. Oh and don’t be surprised if you find your powers useless, a precautionary deal breaker I’m afraid.”

Great, another meet. This should mean that Crowley knows who it is though; the face to face is just to cover his own ass. And he’s going to make sure Dean can’t what? Heal back? He wasn’t planning on using them anyway; however, Crowley bringing it up puts him on edge.

“You do realise last time you picked me up in your car, right?” He points out.

“Don’t get clever, Squirrel. Let’s leave that to your brother, eh. You know what I mean and if you want to know the name of your assassin you’ll be there.”

The beep of being hung up on rings through the phone. He holds it there for a moment, exhaustion and a mixture of relief and disbelief running through him. So Crowley knows who it is; that’s progress, however, the last time he went out to meet Crowley he got exploded by said person. Who’s to say they won’t try again.

“I’m coming with you.” Cas says the very instant he puts the phone back on the table.

“So am I.” Another voice joins in, slurred with sleep, before Dean can answer.

It’s Sammy.

He looks between them both; the hard stare above tired eyes and the determined glare beneath long bangs of hair eliminating all possibility of him resisting this.

He collapses in defeat.

“Fine, but if things get dodgy you listen to me and leave.” Sternly, he says to both men.

They nod.

There’s no way they will do as he says.

For a second, he questions why he bothers to ask when he knows the answer. His family are as stubborn as they come.

 

“Why can’t the meeting place ever be somewhere good? Like White Castle for example!?” Dean groans kicking the pebbles he finds while they walk down the dirt track into the storage and warehouse area. They’d left the Impala on the street, more over Dean’s paranoia for these places than anything. Kids these days would key your car just for kicks.

“They do make very good burgers.” Cas agrees, keeping his gaze calculating and body poised.

He directs them past storage to Warehouse 5, a run down and largely unused building, save for Crowley’s more illicit dealings. It’s on Dean and Charlie’s watch list. Noiselessly regarding the structure, Sam nods to Dean, maybe even himself, and steps inside. He and Cas share a fleeting and concentrated meeting of eyes; they go in after Sam.

Inside is about as impressive as you’d expect. The concrete beams that hold it up stand out in the emptiness of the whitewashed grey room. Above them, bird wings flap, echoing down from the glass roof. A shadow in the raised office catches Dean’s eye and he braces himself for more company than arranged. Crowley is talking animatedly to someone alright, his smarmy laugh resounding down and snagging at the men paused at the doorway.

“Crowley.” Shouting up, Dean steps further into the room. The glass in the roof is stained and green, filtering in pigments of dirty light.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite trio. Moose, Squirrel and Bird.” He drawls from the top step of the stairs leading down from the office. Taking the steps two at a time, he trots down with speed, crossing the space to stand opposite them.

“Ello boys.”

Dean supposes him bringing company was predictable if not expected; Crowley doesn’t appear to be phased or threatened.

“Who was it?” Sam goes into lawyer mode, pleasantries flying with the birds through the cracks and broken holes in the windows.

"Straight to business, alright. He's a friend of yours." Crowley smirks, "Big black fella, boring like angel face but powerful like you Moosey." 

"Raphael." Cas growls. 

Dean raises an eyebrow, flicking between Cas, Crowley and Sam. "I wouldn't exactly call him a friend." 

Sam mouths at him, 'who' and he shakes his head in the not-now-Sammy motion. Explaining this to Sam would be Cas’ job anyway, seeing as it’s his old friend not Dean’s. He just knows enough about the situation to keep in the loop.  

"In a manner of speaking. So, anyway, Raphael gets the boot thanks to myself and Cas, but he doesn't give in completely. He went into private security and is a personal body guard for some guy. Codename: Prophet." 

They all take a minute to wallow in perplexed silence.

"I'll admit, Supers sure have a unique sense of humour.” Crowley sniggers.

It earns him more confused glances. Cas' face is set into a permanent frown, Sam looks totally uncomfortable and Dean is trying not to freak out for all three of them. The good news is it's not personal - to him or Cas. 

“Just picture Moose’s power only on a much larger scale. He gets certain ‘prophecies’?” He questions them, trying too hard to get them to understand the joke. “That’s why they call him... You know what, I don’t know why bloody bother.”

Theatrically throwing his hands into his suit pockets, Crowley paces, stopping in front of Dean to rock on his heels and study him suspiciously. It unnerves him to his core.

“Apparently, he saw you meddling. Which appears to be code for Raph to get killing.” Crowley shrugs, a barely there rise and fall of his shoulders. “And Moose too, it was pure coincidence that Cas happened to be with you at the time.”

Sam shifts again, reminding Dean of the time he put itching powder down his pants. He gives Sam a weird look, earning him a thin lipped bitch face and flare of nostrils.

“Dean, I have a bad feeling about this.”

That’s never a good thing to hear from his brother. Add to that the fact they are with Crowley and shouldn’t (don’t) have access to their powers, Sam having a bad feeling is like God telling Noah of the flood. Psychic residue, or something, giving Sam a heads up on people and danger zones. Crowley is also disturbingly quiet.

Facing him, Cas scans left and right twice, pausing on the second glance at one of the windows. He strides over with purpose, lingering at its weak wooden frame. Sam and Dean follow him over, stopping behind him to peer over his shoulder.

“A wire?” Sam asks, confused.

“Shit.” He and Sam say at the same time. They turn simultaneously to confront Crowley, only to be greeted with an empty floor.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean shouts, kicking the leg of a nearby table. Its rickety frame sways and collapses.

Sirens are sounding in the distance.

“We need to leave.” Cas states, taking off in the direction of the warehouse doors. He can see Cas rolling his shoulders as him and Sam trail after. The bodily slump Cas falls to when he tries to fly outside the building concerns Dean. He pulls at his powers but nothing happens. Crowley making good on his threats to totally incapacitate them.

“I guess a winged escape is out of the question.” He says matter-of-factly, not to hurt Cas’ feelings because he knows how much Cas hates not being able to feel them. Cas nods, solemnly. “Better get running then, fly boy.”

Both he and Sam break off into a swift sprint, years of being chased and chasing people aiding them now. To his great surprise, Cas flanks them on his right, easily maintaining pace with the brothers. He shoots him a questioning head tilt.

“I run, every morning.” Cas says between breaths.

Dean half expects him and Sam to high five.

The business district thins out, the buildings becoming sparser around them. The ground thuds with their combined footsteps, the drone of police falling away behind them. Presumably, Crowley called them on the warehouse giving them a few minutes head start. It smells of dust and concrete – possibly of sweat, but that is probably just Dean.

“I will be the one to carve Crowley’s heart out for betraying us.” Cas says, turning to glare at the sound of advancing police vehicles as if he can get them to disintegrate.

“Easy there Cas, no need to get all medieval.” Dean snorts, elbowing Cas’ side playfully.

Sam groans. “Doesn’t it bother either of you how at ease you are about getting arrested?”

“Not really.” Punching his brother’s to get his attention, Dean smirks cockily. “This is our way in.”

They come to an almost crossroads of alleys where it splits off in three directions.

He pushes Sam in the direction of freedom. “Go Sammy. Now.”

“Dean.” Sam draws out the syllable, strained. “Is there a plan?”

He grimaces.

“I didn’t think so. Be careful, both of you.”

He flaps his hands at his brother and waits until he’s out of sight.

Gripping Cas’ hand, squeezing once, in an instinct he will analyse later, they run back towards the incoming onslaught of police and reporters.

The screech of tyres greets them, policemen ditching their cars and drawing their guns.

“Get on the ground with your hands in the air now!” One of them shouts.

They willingly comply. Someone is telling them their rights, but Dean can’t hear them. He’s zoned in (or out, heh) on Cas. He’s unaffected by their impending arrest, following near blind to Dean’s immediate and half assed plan. Someone jerks their hands back, pushing their shoulders down so their faces are inches apart.

Dean turns to Cas and winks at him as the engraved cuffs get slammed on their wrists. In response he rolls his eyes, a reaction that reminds him very much of Sammy.

Unexpectedly, his is hauled to his feet and a fist lands square on his jaw. Cas struggles against the men taking him to the van. Opening his jaw to let out a ‘huh’ of shock, he glares at the armed guard standing unmoved before him.

“Zachariah wanted to say ‘hi’.”


	18. How Ambiguous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas, prison blues.
> 
> Dean learns something disturbing but doesn't know what it means in the grand scheme of things.
> 
> Cas likes to find that there are normal sized humans left in the world.
> 
> Charlie pulls a Charlie and things can't be as bad as they seem....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this posted tonight, so I apologise for any mistakes. 
> 
> *Throws fluff at you at the end*
> 
> Let me know what you think umu

Cas exchanges a final exasperated look with Sam.

This plan is reckless; if he thought the suggestion of a break in during a break out was bad, Dean deciding to get arrested is intrinsically worse. Not that he resists, when the warm calloused palm slides against his own, squeezing tightly, then dropping down. It’s a comfort Cas knows he won’t be feeling for a while, not if Zachariah has anything to do with it.

He struggles against the men holding him back, keeping him from assisting Dean as he is assaulted. They place them opposite one another in the van, hands cuffed uncomfortably behind their backs, a single soldier a martial beside them. Dean’s head thumps singly against the cold metal wall, shackles clinking, as blood drips sluggishly from his nose. Staring at his lap, Cas tries to ignore the distinct feeling of clipped wings, a cap clamping down on his power. It makes him fidget and the ill treatment of Dean by Zachariah’s orders has him on edge. Without their powers, hands literally tied, there isn’t much in a way for them to defend themselves.

The van grinds to a halt which jostles Dean and makes Cas raise his head to glare in the direction of the driver. The trooper keeps his face impassive, eyes directed at the wall of the transport vehicle.

He turns to Cas and smiles.

“Time to move hotshot.”

Cas is pushed through the open doors before Dean, more guards with trained weapons there to greet them. He looks to the heavens, and then back to the officers, grunting as the nose of a gun presses into his back.

“Keep walking sunshine.”

He ignores the comment. Stepping forward, he is lead across the dirt to the prison. It is an imposing, grotesque, sight; sharp angles with bleak grey walls. The windows are barred and tiny, littering the surface like pin pricks of glass against the uniform colour. Though, having said the walls were grey, the carved symbols and sigils once more remind him that the ache on his back will not go away. He will be a bird caged – a prospect that is less than inviting.

Quickly glancing over his shoulder, he sees Dean, not far behind himself, eyes determinedly remaining straight ahead. They manage a nod of communication before the guard hauling Cas by a tight grip on his bicep, tugs (with more force than strictly necessary) making him turn back round.

Castiel has never been one for small spaces and remaining indoors. If anything, his favourite floor of a building is the roof. There he can stretch his wings and keep an overview of everything. He feels at home in the air. Sighing, he steps across the doorway from freedom. The tightrope they’ve been walking on just got two paces narrower. Thankfully, he has to interact in some way so he is successfully dragged from his thoughts.

“Come on then tiger.” A plucky woman pulls at his arm.

“I am not of the feline species.” He answers, allowing her to direct him through into a small room.

“Everyone’s a comedian.” She grumbles, hands sliding over his torso, down his arms, patting his legs. She removes the blade from his pocket, an impressed look on her face.“But at least you’re a harmless comedian now.”

Cas blinks. She directs him through a machine that bleeps once, presumably for the cuffs.

“Alright, hold still sugar.” Turning his shoulder slightly to the left, repositioning him automatically, she leaves the room.

“Neither am I an accumulation of glucose molecules.” He replies petulantly.

He can see black lines in his peripheral. A flash of light and the stocky woman is back.

“Face this way.”

Her fake smile is cheap and plasticized. Absently, he wonders where Dean is in this process. He takes the orange garments from her outstretched hands, walking through another buzzed door into a long, imposing corridor.   

 

 

Dean’s nose is still lazily oozing blood when they pat him down. Drawing the knife from the inside of his boot, the revolver from his opposite ankle strap, wire cord in his pocket, gun taken out of the inside jacket compartment, the young officer staggers to hold it all and put it on the table. When the kid turns, Dean smirks half shrugging. He offers him a tissue for his nose, standing awkwardly in front of Dean, Bill and Ben. (That’s not their real names but Dean doesn’t actually care and ends up snorting blood at his own joke).

Cas had gone in before him so is probably already through processing and on the way to his cell. He could see, even in the truck, how uncomfortable Cas was. Honestly, he doesn’t know what warranted such blind faith in him. The look of sheer deflation wouldn’t leave his mind; he hopes to god they can deal with this bitch and get Cas out so he can have his wings back.

They take his picture. He takes the piss.

“I call this one blue steel.”

Giving the most overzealous pout he can muster, he poses for the camera. Two pictures later and he gets a faded orange jumpsuit thrust into his hands. He dresses quickly, folding the leather jacket before offhandedly giving the officer the rest of his clothes.

“Take the necklace off too.” The guard says when he has finished putting on the convicts clothing.

“No.” Defensively, he takes a step back.

He rolls his eyes. “Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but you can either take it off and sign the papers, or I can take it off for you.”

 “You lose it,” pushing into the guy’s space, whose hand drops to the baton, he growls, “I will skin you alive.”

The man swallows thickly, hastily shoving the pendent into the zip lock bag. Dean signs it begrudgingly.

He looks down himself, white and orange covering his body. Subconsciously, he reaches for the necklace, dropping his hand when he doesn’t feel it there.

“Great, I feel naked.”

Following the guard in silence, he tries to peak in the gap in the doors to find Cas, but has no luck. He is directed to his cell and, subsequently, he meets his cell mate.

More accurately, he comes face to chest with freaking goliath. The beast’s shirt is three sizes too small, muscles bulging at the seams of the arms and breast. His jumpsuit is tied around his waist, beard hanging low down his chin, flecked with grey and ginger. Tattoos cover the skin on show, graphic depictions of death and mutilation, in crimson and black.

The door closes with an electronic and heartless buzz, leaving him with Chuckles without any sentiment.

Dean glances from the door to the man, who is unmoved and whose facial expression is as rumpled as a bulldog, making it impossible to gauge his emotions other than utterly unimpressed. There’s a scar meandering down his left cheek, across his sneering lips and under his chin. His eyes flick black. _Things just got 10 times more fun._

“I’ll take top-“ He glances past the man’s huge shoulder, seeing the already made bed up high, “Bottom bunk. Awesome.”

If the bed brakes, he is screwed. It’s giving him anxiety just thinking about sleeping under _that_.

Awkwardly side stepping the man to get to the bunk, he feels him pivot to track his movements. He unfolds the blanket and lays down, head on the pillow.

_Still no sign of Zachariah._

He spots the camera in the corner of the room, giving a subtle and, he hopes to convey, sarcastic thumbs up; folding his hands over his eyes, he waits for his turn in the exercise yard.

 

 

Cas stares down at his cell mate – he has been put with a normal sized human. In comparison to Sam and Dean, his neck actually twinges at the prospect of having to crane his neck down instead of up to maintain eye contact.

“My name is Castiel.” He initiates conversation, however determining from the cold and continuous glare he is receiving that his fellow convict is not one who approves of idle chat; he shrugs, moving further into the room.

It is bare, a single bunk bed, toilet and sink making up the entirety of the space. There is a clean patch on the wall where a mirror obviously used to be. The cream walls are scuffed and dirty, dent marks with dried blood the bleach missed. For a cell, it certainly has character.

The pang of sadness sweeps through him again when his eyes rest on the top bunk. Not flying requires effort and he misses the ease that his power brought him, even if this is an important lesson on his dependency. He just wants his wings back.

Cautiously, he climbs the bunk, crossing his legs and staring down at the open space below. His, currently unnamed, companion has moved silently below him. The bed creaks at their combined weight, light trickling through the barred window to his left.

“When do we go outside?” Cas asks, eyes closed, trying not to focus on how empty he feels.

“When do you stop talking?” The man’s grumble rises through the mattress.

Cas sighs. It’s going to be a long prison sentence.

_And then there’ll be Zachariah._

 

 

Hours pass, leaving Dean angsty and practically vibrating with agitated energy. As soon as Dean is out of that box and into the line of inmates, his eyes search frantically for messy brown hair and constant face ache. He has no luck, unfortunately, making it out into the yard alone. He continues to scan the faces, dust beneath his feet, men splitting off in their own directions.

There are people on the court playing basketball, men sitting at tables playing cards and dealing things Dean’s not sure he wants to know about. There’s even a small group lounged on the floor, but still no sign of Cas.

A familiar face catches his eye.

Heading towards the bleacher type seating area, he sits down beside a girl, who has yet to notice him. _Still got it._

“Krissy?”

The girl’s head snaps round almost comically fast, her posture hardening as she stands up defensive. Her eyes soften at seeing Dean, a bordering wistful expression taking over before she clamps down on it. They don’t say anything, silently fist bumping.

“So they finally caught you, huh.” He smiles at her, baiting her with the tease.

She rolls her eyes. “I could say the same to you, Dean.” Eyes sweep his body, once, and then she becomes disinterested and goes back to staring out at the prison grounds. “Losing your touch old man.”

He shakes his head. The problem is, that’s not the first time someone’s said it and given the way things are headed, he’s starting to think it too. It’s nearly a song lyric forming in his mind and he wants to shoot himself for the lack of timing his stupid head has.

“What about you?! How long have they had you locked up for?”

“Not long,” she shrugs, sadness hidden in that singular movement.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” He gives her shoulder a squeeze. “What about your Dad, where’s he?”

“In here too. They got him a week or so before they got me.”

She taps her foot against the wood, filling the space between them. Dean feels like he should say something, though he won’t, and he’s about to get up when he notices for the first time someone is sitting behind them.

 “Who’s that?” Dean points to the boy sitting behind her, who’s intently wringing his hands.

She turns, almost as though she forgot he was there. “Oh, that’s Fluke.”

His nose twitches. “Fluke?”

“My very existence is a chance mistake.” Looking up Fluke grins.

Laughing at the kid’s obviously bright outlook on his life, he eventually dejectedly nods his head understanding. He’s thinking about the surprise someone must have had when that boy popped out. Super genetics are kind of pot luck, his Dad wasn’t a Super, so poor Fluke being unwanted and different? Yeah, Dean winces for the kid.

He keeps a look out for Cas (or Zach for that matter) when he spots someone else.

“Hey isn’t that-“

“Ness,” Fluke has his head leant forward over Dean and Krissy’s shoulders. He points out someone else, hunched over one of the dealers tables. “And Devereaux, Kubrick and Travis aka Rugaru.” He leans in conspiratorially to Dean’s ear. “Word is him and Montgomery are going to have a fight soon.”

Dean blinks impressed. “You two know a lot about who’s in here?”

The teens exchange a look, Krissy leaning back on the bench behind her.

“What do you want to know?”

She pulls him by the hand, directing them past more guards to the resident library. It smells of old books and is quiet in comparison, very few people sat at the tables with books in their hands. His guides leave him for a minute, returning with a stack of newspapers. 

“ _Fuck._ ”

Flicking through the papers with increasing frustration, he slams his hand down, taking a deep breath. He squints his eyes shut, running a hand through his hair. Fluke whistles and mutters something to Krissy but Dean doesn’t pick up on it.

"What don't you ever read the stuff they put in the papers?" 

“Fuck.” He repeats. This is bad, very bad. “How many?”

“That’s just the last few months. Zach’s been rounding us up for years.” Krissy kicks off the wall she’s leaning on in the library. “You kinda don’t look so good.”

Dean blows the breath out, blanking his face before turning to look at the two concerned teens. There would be no point worrying them about this. They can handle it... He really needs to find Cas.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for using your free time on this, I’m gunna be sticking around here for a bit, you should go.”

She regards him for a minute, gaze hard with doubt.

“Let’s go Fluke.”

They’re near the doorway when Dean thinks to ask her for another favour. Krissy can handle herself; two more pairs of eyes can’t hurt.

“I’m looking for a guy actually. Uh, he's- he's got dark hair, blue eyes, a little out of it.” He finds himself talking with his hands, his concern literally breaking him apart. Horrified, he pulls his hands back to rest on the newspapers. _What if Zach-_

“We’ll keep an eye out.” Krissy smiles.

“Be careful.” He shrinks down to the ground, taking the papers with him. How did they not notice before, sooner, when they were scanning with the cameras? He sits back on his haunches, large stilted headlines in front of him.

 

He rereads a few of them. These were good Supers, not ones that would have been easy to catch. There are lower level ones in here too, demons not making the same splash in the press as unmasking a Super. Bile rises in his throat; most of the Super community must be locked up here. The thought makes him twitchy, like he’s missing the other half of the picture.

Demons giving themselves up to bust Luci out, he gets.

A massive boost in the number of Supers getting locked up at the same time? He doesn’t exactly believe in coincidences when it comes to shit such as this.

After staring at the pages until the words stop looking like words and more like a random ensemble of letters, he decides to try his luck at getting some outside information. Of course, you can’t do that without something to bargain with.

He finds himself back in the courtyard, skimming the faces once more. Swiftly deciding that he could do worse than pass the time and gain some of the local currency, he picks out a free spot near the gamblers. Setting himself up on one of the free tables, he walks around a few of the guys already set up. He effortlessly swipes a deck of cards and goes back to his table. He’s a pro a poker, he ought to be, and has been winning games for information and money since he was chasing tail at school. It’s second nature now.

Four games in and he’s drawing in the unfortunate players as quick as he is their hard earned gambling ‘chips’.

 “I thought you’re meant to be a good example.” Krissy flicks his ear from behind.

He blinks, double takes, and blinks again, shuffling the deck. “Who the hell gave you that idea?”

She flicks him again, harder this time. “ _Smoking_ is _bad_ Dean.”

“Then it’s a good thing no one here does.” He retorts, gathering up his latest winnings.

Rounding the bench, she plops down opposite him, head resting on her hands. He expects Fluke to follow, he’s like a shadow – it’s kinda creepy if Dean’s honest – but he’s not there.

“If you don’t smoke, what’s all that for?”

“You’ve been in here how long?” He snorts, waving the handful he’s holding, “These are the currency of the realm. You want anything, you need these bad boys.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Suddenly she is silent. Dean glares at her, she determinedly doesn’t make eye contact.

“Hey.”

“I have a surprise for you.” Grinning far too smugly for his liking, she nods to someone behind him.

“I don’t understand, why do you want me to- Hello Dean.”

Dean’s standing up before his eyes send the message to his brain that she found Cas. Cas is ok, he’s not with Zach. He’s... He looks damn naked without that stupid trenchcoat on. Ok, so it's not stupid and he is kind of in love with Cas' whole Colombo/Constantine get up. They hug it out like the manly men they are for a minute, Cas grasps his bicep as they pull away. Krissy makes a gagging sound behind him, but tries to play it innocent when he turns around.

She swipes the majority of his cigarettes from the table. “See you around Dean and er Dean’s friend.”

 

The call to line back up is sounded not long after. Dean and Cas share one last significant look, within a blink, Cas is gone from his line of sight again. It’s painfully familiar. As is the stench of sweaty men and orange colours flooding his vision, he trudges back to his cell and back to... Chuckles. _Awesome_. However, with the few cigarettes he’s managed to keep, he should at least have some sort of conversation now.

He walks into the guy’s chest, again. Stumbling back, he glances between the guy and the folded garments in his hands. He hands them to Dean, who has to drop his body to catch the complimentary toothbrush before it becomes covered in mystery substance #4: that stain on the floor.

“What’s going on?” He asks, standing outside the room.

A guard pushes past the monstrous man, holding a clip board and rolling the chain of keys around his finger.

“It’s your lucky day kid.”

He’s not even going to retort about how he isn’t a 'kid', because frankly, he’s too confused. The officer yanks at the cuffs on his wrists, pulling Dean in a mild trance through the corridor.

His heart all but stops when they get to the next block. The doors buzz, only Dean doesn’t take the time to appreciate the new line of steel doors and cream painted walls.

Deacon, an old friend of John’s is pushing Castiel into the open door of a cell. Upon seeing Dean, he raises his head.

“I’ll take it from here officer.”

The younger guard nods and hands Dean off; Dean can’t help but think it’s like the most awkward wedding reception ever. Once the other guard is out of sight, Deacon drops the hardass façade, taking off Dean’s cuffs and smiling out of shot of the camera.

“I’d like to say it’s good to see you, but I can’t say that it is in here.” His smile slips, “You being here isn’t an accident is it?”

Deacon is human. Ex soldier, hard working, an honest man; he’s ridiculously devoted to keeping the big bad off the streets and definitely doesn’t condone the way Supers get treated too.

Dean shakes his head. They don’t have the time for him to explain what he doesn’t actually fully understand. “Something bad is going down, Lucifer bad.”

His eyes widen. “And I’m guessing you and your friend here mysteriously getting a transfer to the same cell isn’t a coincidence neither?”

Dean goes to explain _that_ , being either Charlie, Gabe or Ash pulling their skills out of the bag, Deacon cuts him off.

“I don’t want to know,” He shakes his head twice, “Like really, I don’t want to know.”

Closing the door, Dean turns to see Cas balanced on the edge of the lower bunk, a bird to a thin branch. Dean sits next to him. For a brief time, they don't speak.

“There are a lot of Supers locked up too; I don’t have a good feeling about this.” Dean starts, head falling into his hands that are propped up on his knees.

Cas makes a non committal sound. “Zachariah has also remained strangely distant.”

Distastefully grunting, Dean lays back onto the discoloured blue blanket, head nearly hitting against the wall. Cas leans down too, shoulders bumping in the small space between them. Dean turns his head to look at Cas. He’s staring at the holes in the frame of the bunk above, attention fixed on the holes like the constellations of stars.

“Why were you and Gabe so interested in the Roadhouse?” He blurts.

It’s not the question he should be asking. It’s not even important, even if it has been niggling at his brain. Cas and Gabe seemed to have an inkling on the need for back up ages before anyone else. They don’t seem the type who hack files in their free time (unlike Charlie and Ash).

Cas faces him. Their noses are more or less touching.

“Zachariah may be my uncle and he may be less of an ass than Raphael, but he is still an ass. Me and Gabe suspected him to be up to nefarious dealings with the likes of Demons from the start, so Gabe kept an ‘eye on him’,” Cas raises his hands to do the air quotes. “The Roadhouse is a popular destination for Supers and we were looking into the owners in order to exploit their underground connections.”

“Huh.” He sighs.

Prison food isn't as bad as people make it out to be. Dean's used to crappy meals on steel trays, even if Cas only picks uninterested in the mash and slop on his tray. Already he's noticing how although Zach hasn't shown his face, he's definitely made his presence known. First his amulet, (then the cells, if it wasn't for Charlie) and now the more or less isolation, except for their exercise time. 

The light through their skimpy window filters in bleak moonlight. Outside the cell, a luminescent yellow glow shines in a fuzzy square on the floor. They find themselves back on the lower bunk.

Cas slides in first, pressed against the wall.

Dean debates climbing to the bunk above...

He accepts the respite from the nightmares and safety with the steady thump of Cas’ heart and the scratch of stubble against his skin.

Not that he’d ever admit it, but sometimes he feels 4 years old again, trapped inside. He can’t say that he’s afraid, because he really doesn’t fear for himself anymore. There’s a deep seated pathological desire to not be left or alone writhing within him, something he hasn't found a way to cope with yet other than a bottle of drink. Cas makes him calm, practically being the brightness in his mind so that shadows can’t form.


	19. Realizations and One Time Recruits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie and Bobby, lawyer style!
> 
> Sexy times happen - AND GABE SAW A BIT EWWW
> 
> Enter our friendly neighborhood larcenist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, my finger slipped and smut happened?  
> (and no that is /not/ a euphemism)  
> Sorry this took me ages D:
> 
> Let me know what you think guys umu - you may also have noticed that there are only 4 chapters left... Don't worry, I'll warn you in the notes before. 
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes! 
> 
> /PLEASE COMMENT/

The knock on their door comes earlier than they anticipate. Sharing a glance, Dean groggily lifting his head from Cas’ shoulder, Cas groaning barely flicking his eyes open without tightening his hold on Dean’s waist first, neither of them fully move from the bed. The guard bangs on the door harder, sparing them from a no doubt a pitiful and unimpressed once over, he clears his throat.

“You two have a meeting with your lawyers. I suggest you get yourselves decent. You have three minutes.”

Dean crawls out of bed, legs planted over the edge of the bunk. He drags his hand backwards, ruffling his already messy hair. Cas is on his feet, in a similar state of disarray. Hair poking in all directions, clothes wrinkled from sleep and heavy bags hanging under his bright blue eyes. Maybe Cas is only a morning person with a cup of coffee in his system.

“I did not know we had lawyers.” Cas grumbles, voice thick from sleep.

Dean looks up, squinting through his still sleep hazed vision to see Cas pulling his jumpsuit back up over those lean shoulders. He licks his lips.

“Won’t be Sammy,” he says, standing up to iron out the crick in his back and neck, “it’d be too risky.”

Grunting, Cas wets his hands in the sink and pulls at his stands of hair in an attempt to tame them - it only suffices to make him look like a lost puppy caught out in the rain. Dean chuckles, pulling up his own orange get up; leaning close to Cas to press a gentle kiss to the side of his cheek.

“Come on then Thelma and Louise,” The guard calls, waiting for them to put their hands in the gap in the door. The heavy weight of cuffs pulls at his wrist and he sighs, longing for the freedom of being out of the building. It’s a physical representation of how his power feels, ironically. He doesn’t get the chance to mutter something into Cas’ ear, as the door buzzes open.

They are ushered in silence, side by side; the only sound in the corridor is surprisingly the soft patter of their weird ass shoes, the clicking of the guard’s heels and the occasional clink of their cuffs. Dean takes a minute whilst they’re walking to examine the ones around his wrists, squinting at the Latin texts and foreign symbols. Sammy would be so much better at this than him.

The guard regards them both slowly, Cas’ expression unchanging and Dean raising an eyebrow in question. He sends them in different directions, Cas left and Dean right to a steel door and grey room. Sitting down, he is cuffed to the table. When the door opens again, Dean stops testing the range of his hands to look up.

“Charlie?”

“That’s Miss Bradbury to you Mr Winchester,” She says, all business in her tone, although he can see the corners of her lips peaking up in a barely contained smirk. She looks nervous; Dean wonders why they didn’t send Bobby or Benny to him. On the other hand, Charlie looks professional as any, long red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, clothes brand new and papers held curtly to her side.

Sitting down beside him, she shuffles the sheets on the table.

“Do you like it,” She gestures to the red top she’s wearing, near sniggering, “I got it on behalf of you and Cas.”

He shakes his head. Firstly he doesn’t know what she means, then he remembers how Gabe had looked almost predatory with a mischievous gleam and for Christ sakes they can’t go three seconds without betting on something!

“Charlie, focus.”

She huffs, giving him a dirty look and places the pages before him. He scans over them, glances at her and tries to understand what she’s trying to tell him.

“Write down everything you’ve learnt while I fill you in. We managed to get you and Cas on laundry duty. You have to keep a low profile and don’t draw too much attention.”

Slowly, she rearranges the pages, certain random marks coming together to form a split second number. Dean nods.

“Me and Bobby are the only ones not currently under investigation or suspicion – don’t question me Dean we haven’t got much time.“

He closes his open mouth with a quiet tick and carries on writing.

“You can communicate to us through the cameras and we’re working on getting the guys inside too.” Charlie peaks at the words he’s writing on the page, “Supers? Hu'tegh, how did I miss that?”

He scribbles down more, ignoring her blatant Klingon swear, making sure to note that he and Cas have so far been isolated from the general population, they still haven’t seen Zach and the Demons have been otherwise quiet.

“Between us we’re going to try and smuggle in some basics: knives, maybe a gun or two. Sam said something about taking out the guards,” Her voice drops to a whisper, “But I don’t think we should worry about that with old Satan trying to make a break for it... Oh and Kevin says he’s making progress on the translations, there are protection symbols and even more power caps, kind of like double checking.”

Seat creaking as she huffs and collapses back into it, Dean stops writing.

“Ok, gotcha. We sneak the stuff in, stop Lucifer from getting out without any hope of having our powers.” He side eyes her, “Piece of pie right?”

Her whole head gets involved in her eye roll. They hold each other’s unimpressed and shared concern for a moment, Dean returning to writing on the page. He taps the pen once, twice, on the paper.

“Wait, if you’re with me, does that mean –“

 

“Hello Bobby.” Cas greets, mournfully leaning back in his chair as far as his chains will allow. He scowls at the stainless steel.

“I told you to stay out of trouble, ya idjits!” Bobby half shouts in reply.

Castiel likes Bobby. He’s intelligent and gruff, no nonsense and to the point. He knows a lot about many things and has the best library Cas has ever been in. Except now, when Cas has faced down Demons, his own uncle, a multitude of heavily armed attackers; Bobby’s fully noticeable frown line under what appears to be neatly combed hair, makes him sit up awkwardly.

“Alright boy, here’s what’s going to happen. You and Dean are goin’ to make the best of this crappy situation. We’re trying to get some weapons in so we are more prepared for when this thing happens. You two are on laundry duty for that. We’ll keep an eye on things outside but if you notice anything just draw attention to the cameras and we’ll be watching...” He gives Cas one of the looks usually reserved for when Dean is going to do something stupid. Cas shifts in his seat. “Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Cas holds Bobby’s intense glare until he is forced to look away under the severity of the older man’s experience in giving those kind of not condescending but you-better-listen-to-me looks.

“You two be careful.” His voice is low, the same order but laced with unease.

“And you, Bobby.”

 

Dean rocks back on his seat, the chains resisting and pulling him back. Charlie seems determined not to leave yet.

“So... You and Cas huh.” She starts conversationally.

“Charlie, you need to go.”

It’s not just that he doesn’t want to talk about it – really he doesn’t want to talk about it – but it’s making him shifty the longer she’s here. What if they see through her fake credentials, the last thing they need is half of the team prematurely (again, irony hits him full force in the chest) in jail.

“I want details Winchester, how about I shut the cameras off in your room for tonight?” She winks, reorganizing the papers and standing.

Dean silently balks, heat blooming in his cheeks. Suffice to say that despite being traumatised and embarrassed by their conversation, he’s starting to consider it. Him, Cas, some alone time... He bangs his head on the metal table and groans at the twinge of pain that shudders through him.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Catch ya later Deano.” She sing songs, nodding formally, though a little too in character, to the guard on the other side.

 

They’re reunited in their cell after that. Cas gets his cuffs off first, moving out of his eye shot. Dean holds his hands out for the cuffs to be removed, resting them above his head against the door and rubbing them against each other consciously as he fidgets, waiting for the guard to hurry up. Finally, the guard taps the corner of the open gap and Dean shoves his hands through. He shuffles away from the door, smoothing the red lines with his free fingers and turns to face Cas.

Cas is standing there and, if Dean didn’t know better, he would say that Cas looked hungry, feral even.

“Cas?”

Snapping out of it, Cas lunges forward claiming Dean’s mouth in a bruising kiss.

Remember that dominance kink he was talking about? Well, his dick certainly does.

They cling to each other, frustrated hands sloppily working down the orange jumpsuits. Dean’s hands find their way into Cas’ unruly hair, tugging at the short strands. Cas groans, breaking away from the kiss and spinning them around so Dean’s hands are pinned against the hard frame of the top bunk.

And he used to think Cas was a virgin. _Holy shit_ was he not a virgin, no way.

Lips mouth at the edge of his jaw, working their way down to nip teasingly at his neck as Cas’ deft hands wind up his exposed shirt and his suit falls to the ground.

“ _Cas_...” Dean mewls, slightly calloused fingers brushing over his nipples. “Cas the camera.”

He stops his ministrations on Dean’s nipple, pulling back to look Dean in the eye. The blue irises have almost been entirely eclipsed in black, Cas’ chest heaving with lust. The solid hand holding him securely by the waist, if anything, tightens.

“Why would they knowingly watch us?” His voice is an octave lower; a growl of ghosted air breathes across Dean’s parted lips.

Under normal circumstances, Dean would probably object to the possibility of his family watching. But, his trousers are down, his dick is hard and Cas is _right_ _there_ – hair mussed from Dean’s fingers, jumpsuit slipping down his shoulders and his own very obvious erection forming a noticeable wet patch through the fabric. Groaning, Dean pushes forward, pinning Cas against the wall to kiss him again. He can do that now, after so long pining, and the way Cas is sucking and gently biting at his bottom lip is far better than he’s ever imagined.

The lines of their bodies are pressed together, Castiel’s t-shirted shoulders and back to the wall, Dean’s naked thigh gradually sliding between his legs. Dean tugs a hand back in Cas’ hair, tilting his face to deepen the kiss while sliding his other hand up Cas’ shirt. He can feel the hard muscle beneath his fingers and warm skin; his thumbs stroke at the jut of Cas’ strong hip.

Bunching Dean’s white t-shirt, Cas drags his hand upward. Dean can feel a thrill as those hands are on his skin, loving how much strength and worn his own skin seemed to be, giving glorious friction to his body.

With the opening of pulling his own shirt off, Dean makes quick work of Cas’ too. He almost forgets that his skin is littered in scars and he shivers when Cas pauses, reverently running his hands up Dean’s chest and back before pulling him close again. Dean pushes his hips against him, moaning out loud as he feels Cas’ erection, only their flimsy prison grade boxers between them. Dean starts to rock his hips in a rhythm, getting lost in how this is Cas he was doing this with, his Cas, perfect Cas. Cas moans, his head falling back with a thump against the wall. His eyes almost glowed as he suddenly lifts Dean, carrying him back to the bed, hips bucking slowly while Dean mouthed at the muscle between his neck and shoulder.

He places Dean on the bed gently, considering how almost aggressive the whole thing had started, shucking off his own pants before pulling down Dean's own. Then he stands there wavering on his feet, eyes running over Dean’s completely naked body. It makes him want to shy away but Cas is on top of him, lithe body covering him.

Heat floods Dean’s lower half, his eyes becoming unfocused as Cas’ hand starts to stroke his dick. The knowledge that this is Cas with his hand around Dean’s dick is seriously going to his head (woah, making puns during sex Dean) and his thoughts seem to pound with Cas’ strong strokes, rising and falling with every twist of his long fingers across the tip.

Throwing his head back, Dean thrusts into Cas’ hand. Only using his pre come for lube, the friction of Cas’ hand was going to make this over embarrassingly quickly; the selfish part of him never wants this to end. Dean pulls Cas’ shoulders back up to kiss him, swallowing Cas’ groan when he takes Cas’ erection in his own hand. Cas stops, holding the hand that was touching Dean’s dick to his mouth, licking each of the fingers until they’re coated in spit, Dean closes his eyes and tries not to come right there, allowing Castiel’s hand to take both of them in one hand.

“Fuck, _Cas_.” He hisses, the friction of both their dicks together was so impossibly good that he barely registers his own palm joining Cas’.

“Dean...” Cas moans his name like a prayer into his marred skin, breath panting on his collar bone.

In scarcely any time at all, Cas is crying out with desperate sounds, both of them riding high on the feel of the spit that had Castiel’s hand moving up and down quickly. It unexpectedly hits Dean at how... Tender, it has become. It is no longer frantic, like both of them know this may be the only time they can do this, that the odds are so inexplicably stacked against them that this moment, this climax that they have taken so long to get to, may be it. He hides his face in the crook of Cas’ neck, other hand wrapping around his back to bring him closer, let the sensation of here and now fill him up. Cas ishere, clutching Dean nearly as tightly as he is holding him and for the first time with another person, he feels wanted and worth something... Loved.

Loved. 

The realization hits him hard, body tensing and in a fight or flight response he jacks them faster. Sammy help him, he is in love with Cas. He’d finally worked through all of his own God damn bullshit feelings to find that yes, he was utterly and wholly in love with Castiel fucking Novak. Fucking Angel, with those nimble fingers currently wrapped around their dicks. Fuck everything. 

“I’m close,” Castiel blurts out, oblivious to Dean’s revelation. His words are shortly followed by a series of jumbled gasps, a deep frown appearing between his eyebrows. “Oh, Dean, don’t stop, please.”

“Not gunna,” Dean assures, pressing a kiss into Cas’ damp hair, then pushing his nose into his temple to nuzzle him. “God Cas...”

Cas moves into the touch, tipping his head to catch Dean’s gaping mouth against his cheek in a sloppy (not really) kiss.

Dean feels Cas’ come. Hot and fast, Cas plummeting right over the edge of his orgasm. He bites down hard on Dean’s shoulder, sucking at the flesh as he comes. Wetness spread across their hands, spilling over his belly. Cas groans out a non intelligible sound as Dean continues to writhe against him. He looked gorgeous when he came and Dean could imagine his great black wings flaring out... Talk about a new kink he didn’t know he had.

“Dean...” Came the broken whisper at Dean’s ear, heated lips dragging on his cheek. They meet for a passionate kiss, deep tongues, Cas' free hand tracing Dean’s body with unfounded adoration.

Dean whines, hands breaking from his dick to hold onto Cas’ body. He needed to hold him, to have Cas there to ground him.

“Yes - oh... Cas-”

“Come on,” Castiel mumbles against his skin. Taking Dean’s face between both hands, elbows resting beside his head, he kept their eyes locked. “Come for me. Dean.”

Dean lurches forward into a full-body kiss, lip and tongue, hips and toes. He comes praising Cas’ name in one glorified shout, shivering as he comes down, not from the cold but from still having those hands holding him like he was something precious, revered.

Cas could do no better than breathe into the space between his shoulder and his neck, panting against his sweaty skin. His lips rest on the mess of Cas’ hair, arms wrapped around his body to keep him there, despite the gross feeling nestling on their stomachs.

In a half daze, Cas’ hand fumbles on the floor for one of their shirts, wiping their mess from their sticky bodies and tossing the soiled shirt in an unknown direction. Dean’s already slipping into sleep, but he can feel Cas’ gaze on him. He isn’t ready for the emotions he can see in there, for all the things he’s always refused to believe in himself to be given so openly by a man as great as Cas.

Cas cups his cheek, kissing him chastely. “You are worth everything I have Dean.” Cas blinks, cocooning Dean with himself, as though he still has the wings to do it. “I love you.”

He stills, instantly. “I love you too, Cas.”  

And he succumbs to warm arms and a happy flutter in his chest.

 

“HA HA HA! Ha HA!” Gabe bounds away from the screen, snapping his fingers, “Seriously though ew, but HA HA. You guys all owe me money... Aaaand I’m going to need it to pay for the therapy for what I saw!” He shouts shuddering at the memory of the glimpse he had caught of his brother and Dean.

“Really, already?!” Charlie asks, looking away from her screen to Gabe’s happily dancing figure. “I didn’t even get the chance to blank their screen.”

Gabe wiggled his eyebrows, “Alright new bets: CASSIE IS THE TOP!”

Ash, Benny, Garth – _everyone_ – groaned.

“Brother, I ain’t got no money left to bet and _that_ is going a little far into what I want to keep myself from imagining.”

“I second Benny.” Kevin grumbled from behind a stack of books.

“Alright, alright. Spoilsports.” Gabe goes back to his desk, clicking grumpily at the keys. He blanks out the conversation Sam is leading, Jess having gone to work. Something about needing keys and key cards, uniforms...

“Balthazar.” He mutters to himself. Oh yes, that’s exactly what this party needs, his overzealous, smug little shit of a cousin. Maybe it will take his mind off the fact that Zach has been a no show.

Dialling the number, the tilts the chair back pulling a taffy through his teeth.

“Balthy old buddy old pal, why don’t you scurry up here and say hi to the nice people?” He grins, knowing that Balthazar loves to make an entrance. When is a prank not a prank? When a serious situation depends on a hilarious variable.

“On my way, cousin.”

Gabe drags his pot of sweets into his lap, happily munching away whilst keeping a vigil on the elevator doors. They ping open, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Oh come on.” He’s still invisible, though Gabe knows he’s referring to the state of the room and possibly the absence of a Winchester and Cas. The room of people looks utterly confused, Sam going as far as drawing a knife, all except from Charlie who scans the screens with unbroken absorption.

He can imagine Balthazar sauntering up to the table but damn near chokes on his sweet when Balthy reveals himself. He’s sprawled across the table, leg bent and sultry grin on his face.

“Draw me like one of your Fren- ouch.” Balthazar rubs his head where Jo has smacked him with a book, like you might do to a bug. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

“Who are you?” Sam says, imploring bitch face directed at him, watching him rolls his legs off the edge of the table.

Balthazar appeases his expression for a minute, and then gestures vaguely with his hand to Gabe. “Believe it or not, I’m related to the fool in the dirty trenchcoat and _that_ candy eating bum.”

In retaliation, Gabe clicks his fingers to produce a woman who slaps him round the face and disappears. Ash finds it hysterical while Ellen and Bobby remain on the task of helping Kevin, well removed from the exact drama Balthy exhibits.

He sighs. “Well I’m guessing you didn’t call me here for fun. What do you want?”

Garth brings forward a list, compiled by all of them with the exact numbers they will need to complete the mission. Ok, so it’s not really a ‘mission’ (they wouldn’t let Gabe call it that anyway) but he likes to liven things up a bit. If he wasn’t so busy trying to track down Zach and keep an eye on the dream team, he’d be up to scaring the pants off some dumb guard himself.

“Who wrote this, a baboon?!” He exaggerates squinting at the letters on the page. Turning abruptly, he shoots Gabe a weary and meaningful glower. “You’ll owe me for this.”

He’s invisible before Gabe can roll his eyes and give him a devilish smirk. Sure, he’ll owe him... A drink. Balthy is the easiest person to get in debt to.

“Balthy wait!” He jumps from his seat.

He appears near the elevator doors, pressing the button and exaggeratingly twisting to face him, question written in his risen eyebrow.

“Is Cassie a top or a bottom?”

So many priceless expressions and sighs of exasperations from the occupants of the room answer him.

“Top, though I’m not so certain it should be something for you to worry about. He likes his men taller, with green eyes and self preservation issues.”

He’s gone again.

 

Balthazar silently leaves his stolen – he may have had quite a bit of fun frightening the old geezer – items from his various destinations that night in the room. However, he’s determined for it to be his final role in the dangerous game that they’re playing.


	20. Smuggling and Just Smug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, smuggling in weapons (totally inaccurately for a prison but hey ho), cutesy prison inmates.
> 
> They learn some things.... And in true Winchester fashion, things start to go to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at writing the passage of time so bad *apologises profusely*  
> This is all past tense, a quick run through of their week - a filler, nonetheless, but a necessary point in the story - up until the last sort of bit which, if this was a Supernatural episode would be the /NOW/ part.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for mistakes and let me know what you think guys umu

Their first week is relatively uneventful.

And by that, Dean means that for a prison, things are normal. The lack of Zachariah, he is most definitely counting his lucky stars, is in fact explainable. Due to his outstanding work as police chief, he has become somewhat a celebrity in the law enforcement circles. He has been called to another state (he was eavesdropping ok, it’s hard to focus in on details) to give a speech on crime fighting.

Dean snorts at the thought.

Meanwhile he and Cas have been involved in some heated groping, frantic blowjobs and, despite the niggling voice in his head and sudden ache in his chest, he is happy. Honestly, truly, wholly, happy. It’s not even just the sexual stuff – that’s really saying something because Cas can give a _fucking sinful blowjob_ – because Dean knows he fell for Cas long before they crawled out of emotional constipation.

He tries hard not to focus on the emotions. It clouds him sometimes, how far he has fallen; he used to think Cas hated him. Maybe he did. Then again, there are secrets caught in a web between them and he doesn’t know how Cas will react to the truth... About him, Alastair, their first kiss and the magnitude of fucked up shit that sits like a stagnant pool between them.

Not that he can dwell on it too long. Cas is nudging his side, rolling behind him with a graceful swivel of hips to empty another laundry cart. Or he’s lying awake, holding Dean with the adoration that Dean knows he doesn’t deserve. They’re staring at each other, world shrinking down to blue and green and the hard lines of their bodies and soft touches.

They still keep a vigil. Dean can see it in Cas’ eyes, that gentle side slipping beneath the layers of warrior once they leave the confines of their cell. It would be careless to drop the ball now, though they never really stray too far from each other’s side.

Dean interrogates the Supers during the exercise period; the sly glances he receives from the less savory occupants of the courtyard don’t go unnoticed. He doesn’t let it show, Cas rather oppositely seethes quietly, glaring back at them.

From what they’ve gleaned, the Supers know nothing about Lucifer’s impending escape plan, nor have they seen a change in the Demons behaviour. The uncertainty of whether that information is comforting or not, whirls in Dean’s gut, mounting unhelpfully on top of the issues already residing in there.

The laundry room is a muted white, the deafening sound of turning motors and flapping fabrics filling the crevasses in his head. The washing machines run against the wall and in rows, lining the entire room. On the opposite side, the dryers and wheeled carts of cleaned garments are lazily removed and dealt with. There aren’t many others on duty here, him and Cas, a few gnarly looking guys that shift nervously under attention. Nonetheless, it’s peaceful, save the noise, and Cas takes to the job with the same rapt enthusiasm as anything he does.

Cas does, however, naturally prefer the library. It’s also Dean’s favourite place to slam Cas against a wall and kiss him senseless... So, by extension, he kinda likes it too.  

Zoning out shoving another load of laundry into the massive washers, his mind runs full circle. Raphael is the one they need to worry about; hits are far easier and much simpler to make look like suicide in gang controlled prisons with guards on the pay roll. Zach will be back and when he is, things are going to get even more difficult. Half the people actually locked up in here either know Dean Winchester - you learn to never forget a face - or have been captured by Hunter. So many enemies and threats under one roof makes him itchy, near paranoid, without his gun and power.

He breaks out of his dangerous thoughts when a hand touches his wrist. Cas is stopping him from turning the dial and starting the wash. Leaning in, Cas pulls the ball of soap powder capsule out and drops it on the floor. The hard ball cracks and a small blade chinks on the concrete, covered in dust. They share a glance and a shrug, Cas solemnly crouching down, removing his flimsy shoe to shove the knife into the sole.

This has been going on for the last few days now. They’ve managed to acquire a small arsenal of knives and are about ¾ of the way through having a fully operational gun. It’s been risky, sure, what with the surveillance surveying them all hours of the day, suspicious guards at every door and just the general population around them. They manage, just about.

 

Cas had drawn his attention to the basketball court the last time they were out, noting that the numbers of players had significantly dropped. Upon investigating, however, they found that a fight had broken out in the mess hall. He’s kind of pissed they missed all the action.

According to their less than reputable sources, Samhain had started a fight with Hester (a Super it turns out Cas is familiar with, that sends no jealous or possessive thoughts through his head nope) which had ended up in getting a bunch of them sent to solitary. Which, tragically, is where Lucifer is also caged. When they are locked back in their cell, Cas and Dean share a weary glance.

Carefully, situated with his back to the wall, Cas sits cross legged while he pulls a few knives from the hole in his shoe. He observes the blades, kept out of shot from the camera by Dean, also cross legged on the bed, like a weird tetris blind spot. Going to sleep every night knowing that something sharp could literally stick you is less than pleasant thought, one that they have accepted by taking their Bible (they give you one for your room now, Dean scoffs reading the last page) and using it as a barrier. It’s not ideal, but they muddle through.

The evenings pass slowly; sometimes Dean will not want to be seated, antsy about Lucifer and how constricted they both feel, so he’s does press-ups off the bed or hangs from the top bunk to do sit ups. Cas isn’t much better in these moods, pulling Dean up and making him spar until they’re sweaty and it’s less about fighting and more about the slide of slanted mouths and hot skin. Other times though, in the lull of prison silence, they will face each other on the bed, Budda style and do nothing. They might talk, about easier times, growing up, home... Family. Or they will stare, silently searching on another for the answers to the secret insecurities they both hold, two broken souls clinging and merging in a desperate attempt to become whole.

It is times like these where Cas, the dork, will say the strangest, peculiarly captivating things.

“214.” He says one night, their knees bumping as he leans forward to brush his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone.

“214 what, Cas?” Dean breathes quietly, leaning into the touch.

Both men exhibit nightmares. Neither is willing to talk about it. It’s a survival mechanism and with the world resting so precariously on unbalanced shoulders, they dare not disrupt the equilibrium. Whether or not Dean is afraid to admit that Alastair still sweeps his dreams, stalking out of the shadows to laugh and mock Dean and his _feelings_. Or maybe Cas is at fault, for not speaking about how he too has hurt the innocent, endangered lives, but how the subject of a reoccurring dream is quite simply Dean: dead. Dead at his hand, blood on his clothes, at first screams echoing, then quieter, pleading and then the pleading makes it worse.

It makes him feel sick. Lying. And he feels raw, like an open nerve that Cas could so easily be the balm too, but he can’t do it. He can’t tell him how often he had wished for death, of how he saved those poor people only to subject them to Alastair’s knife all over again. His brain is a loop and it plays every tape. Over and over and over. He wants to let Cas know what each scar means, how he needn’t have the sad, far away glint in his eye when he tracks Dean’s body with his eyes and hands. Telling him would be so easy. To let him know that because of him, he got away. That most of the scars and broken bones are Dean’s own damn fault; equal to Alastair and ever other person he’s fought.

Cas’ hands cup Dean’s face, eyes questioning where Dean had gone. He smiles, pressing closer.

“Freckles on your face,” Their faces are a lips distance apart, a tease, a promise of more. The kiss ends up being innocent, fleeting, and heartfelt, before Cas pulls Dean back with him to lay down on their springy mattress, with the hardback Bible square in the centre. Dean rests his head on Cas’ chest, their legs entwined between them. It’s far too tender, for men and Supers forged in fire and ash... Yet here they are.

Dean wishes Cas had his wings. He wishes a lot of things, drifting off again in Cas’ arms, the steady thump of his heart beneath his ear.

 

The advantage of being on the inside soon wears out. Peace and calm is ripped from their hands with a cruel snatching glare.

It all starts on their laundry shift. They’d run out of the soap powder balls and Cas had gone to request some from the guards. Dean leant against the metal monstrosity, minding his own business, when he hears a grunt from the back of the room.

This is usually the part in horror films that you’re screaming at the TV (he would be too) as the character moves toward the noise.

Turning the corner at the end of the row, the space is dissonantly silent. A discarded pile of clothes left on the ground, the thrum of washing machines filtering into his ear as a high pitched sound.

“Winchester.”

 _Just fucking super_.

He swivels quickly, backing himself against the wall so that they can’t get the jump on him again.

Back at the Roadhouse, Sam had brought up that Supers cannot be trusted. In the same way that Demons and Creatures can choose the light, so called 'heroes' can fall headfirst into the pit of despair and villainy.

Sam had Ruby. Dean had that vampire (once). They both had to deal with Meg – Cas gets in on that one too.

But Dean, the worst excuse of a Super he had to deal with was Gordon fucking Walker.

The man is an impeccable hunter, of the bad and the ugly, though has his downfall in his obtrusively disturbing blood lust. His powers made him the ultimate predator and one too many times did he do more than capture his prey. He also came after Sammy. Some lines have to be drawn.

Dean Winchester, not Hunter, turned him in for dangerous animal he is.

“Gordon, how’s it been?” He feigns his cocky nature, bristling with the adrenaline of a fight.

The man stalks forward dark eyes and dark skin taking on an ailing hue in the insufficient fluorescent light.

He doesn’t answer, instead swinging his fist and landing a blow across Dean’s jaw. Pushing forward, Dean smashes him against the metal washing machine, a tinny ringing sound bouncing out as Gordon stands straight. He throws his arms up, knocking Dean’s that had been pinning him to the machine, snarling and punching more rabid than he’s ever seen him.

They’ve turned again, Dean kneeing him in the stomach, ignoring the blood he can taste in his mouth. Gordon moves with the blow, taking a few winded breaths and then shanks Dean in the leg with a previously concealed weapon. Dean flinches, barely waiting for Gordon to remove it before sliding his leg into the back of Gordon’s knee and taking him to the ground.

Cas comes running out of nowhere, pressing a calm and controlled foot to Gordon’s heaving pulse point. He stops moving, Dean standing to full height, leaning mostly on his good leg and on Cas. Worry flickers in those perfect blue eyes; Dean shrugs his concern off and wipes the blood dribbling from the corner of his lip.

Suddenly, hard nails and a firm grip tears both their shoulders back. Dean half stumbles, disregarding the pain as he places all his weight on that leg to right himself. He swallows hard, licking his lips nervously and side eying Cas. The righteous fury that burns in his eyes is a cold comparison to the way they look at Dean. He’s mainly glad to never be on the receiving end of that look.

“Zachariah.” Cas growls, low and dangerous in his throat.

“Well if it isn’t my two favourite Supers.” He grins, wrinkles scrunching together obnoxiously. “Angel and... If I’m not mistaken, Deano, you must be Hunter.”

A zap of _something_ shoots up his spine. How could he know? He shakes his head with a mournful, humourless twitch. He’d bet his arm and leg that Crowley sold him out.

“And who is this you have so evidently assaulted, Nephew?” His full attention is on Cas now, as though Dean never existed in the first place. “Gordon Walker. Guards take this mess of a man to the infirmary while I decide a suitable punishment.”

Cas remains deathly still, comatose if it weren’t for the depth of his chest moving.

“I think some time alone would do you some good, _Cas_.” He snaps his fingers for two more guards. Cas visibly recoils when Zachariah says the nickname Dean adorned him with. It makes Dean’s blood boil.

“As for you, Winchester, back to your cell.”

His protests along with Cas’ die and turn to dust in deaf ears. Officers haul them apart, stop them from struggling and fucking _sedate_ Cas as they drag him away.

The last thing Dean sees is the smug satisfaction of an oddly perched Zachariah.


	21. When It's Not What It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So a full scale prison break out.
> 
> Cas hears voices.
> 
> Sam sees Satan.
> 
> And Dean finally, finally, gets the pleasure of knocking that fucking asshole out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whump :3
> 
> only two chapters left shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitake mushrooms.
> 
> Also, I'm not sure if it's triggering but I'd rather warn you: non graphic mentions of cutting (only fingers)
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK <3

Cas wakes slowly, his haze dripped mind uncharacteristically sluggish. But there is something warm and pliant beneath his face, Dean’s shoulder he supposes, so he snuggles in and inhales the cheap fabric softener. His arm reaches out lazily, to hold Dean close in the way that since they had become ‘official’ he has become accustomed to do, only to grope a handful of blanket.

His nose twitches. Dean must have gotten up, he concludes with an irritable grunt. For a moment, he closes his eyes; content to wait for Dean to come back to bed. He had the weirdest dream (something that he doesn’t usually get to say) only Zachariah had been there and Dean had been in a fight and -

He’s jerks upright in the bed, the rush of movement making him feel lightheaded and woozy. He rocks into the sitting position, trying to settle his head enough to complete a rational thought. It’s all a daze; fogged over and unclear ahead of him. He notes, while sitting, that there isn’t the familiar shadow of the top bunk cast over him and it comes crashing back.

Standing, he wobbles on jelly legs before falling back onto the bed with a huff.

Of course, Zachariah _had_ been there and he’s been put, he assumes, in solitary. He hadn’t even been involved in the fight! Then he remembers, Dean’s forehead sluggishly bleeding and those nimble fingers rising to wipe the blood from his swollen lip. It pains him dearly to see Dean injured, in anyway. The morbid fascination he has towards the scars that litter his freckled skin is upheld by the desire to protect and shelter. Had he his wings, he would wrap them around Dean and in the respite from the outside world he would let the question slip from his lips and ask Dean to tell them their story. All of them. He’s mapped them out by now, knows each mark, every freckle, the curve of his ribs and the depth of his collar bone.

Blinking rapidly, he rolls his eyes a few times and eventually the murkiness leaves his head. The room he’s been moved to is pure white: white walls, white sheets, loose white shirt and trousers. It’s unnerving and cold, dreary and he’s sure that without Dean his little world has gotten a few shades darker.

That’s when he hears it.

“I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies.  
I won't stay long, in this world so wrong.”

He knows that this song is being sung for him. The words pound in his head, almost as though Lucifer himself is trying to claw his way in, to talk to _him_. What he doesn’t know, is how Lucifer is pulling it off. His eyes weakly scan for the camera, hoping that Charlie or someone is watching and can hear it too.

A terrifying thought creeps up on him.

What if Lucifer is already inside his head?

No, he couldn’t be. There are more blocking sigils than are written on the Holy Grail, he couldn’t bypass all of them and even if he did, why would he bother to hang around and sing? Cas settles on that the walls are not soundproof and Lucifer is singing very loudly.

“Say goodbye, as we dance with the devil tonight.  
Don't you dare look at him in the eye, as we dance with the devil tonight.”

He closes his eyes and pushes the noise away, slipping into a caressing static of nothingness. They have no doubt changed his shoe wear, if they have removed his clothing, so the knife that he had stashed is gone. The dreaded feeling of being watched makes him sit up straight, legs folded over the edge of the bed. He rubs a hand over his face, looking to the heavens, or an equally unhelpful _white_ ceiling, then back to the room.

His heart catches in the gaps of his rib cage. Perched across from him – _you’re hallucinating Cassie, listen to me he’s not real. It’s the drugs, he’s not there. Don’t do this to yourself._

“Having fun yet, kiddo?”

 

Sam has always been a light sleeper. An assimilation of nightmares, constant weariness and general appreciation of being aware of his surroundings at all times means that he can wake to the slightest of noises.

Wiping the sleep from the corners of his eyes, he straightens his back. He must have fallen asleep in the chair at the table; Kevin is across from him, still working away. He looks up and raises his pen in a wave, drinking softly from one of the many cups of coffee scattered around him. Sam nods back, standing to stretch his muscles. It feels cramped and heavy across his shoulders and as he stifles a yawn, he twists.

He almost crumples when he’s done; he looks around to see who else is up. Charlie is slumped across her desk and Gabe is lounged with an impressive amount of drool hanging from his mouth. Sam snorts, taking out his phone to snap a picture. That’s when he hears it again. A faint sound, close to nothing, and judging by the way Kevin has his earphones plugged in, he didn’t hear it.

Shaking his head a little, the buzz drifts away. He crosses the space to Charlie, lifting her carefully from her throne and carrying her over to the blow up beds. He sets her down gently, hoping to save her from the same tightness his lower back is experiencing.

The monitor on her screen is glowing in the darkness and he is drawn to the technology rather than continuing to pour over the books. He also wants to check on his brothers, yes he considers Cas that now – he might as well with the way he and Dean are more or less married already.

Lazily plopping down in the seat, he squints at the change of brightness. Charlie has so many monitors and screens set up here, he feels more like Q than James Bond. And now he groans quietly, scowling at the many screens trying to pinpoint his dumbass of a big brother.

Sam doesn’t know what he was expecting, after all, Zachariah’s dirty trick had separated Dean and Cas but he probably should have known better than to assume that they would man up and deal with it.

Dean is pacing, not fast, not slow, just pacing in the confines of his small cell. Every so often he glances at the bed, shakes his head and mutters to himself. If Sam didn’t know Dean, he’d say he’s lost his marbles completely. Finding some headphones, he plugs into Charlie’s main system and turns up the volume. Despite what Dean is determined to believe, he is a strategist and intelligent; one of the best damn Supers out there.

Sam wants to know what’s playing through his brother’s mind, eager to listen and hopefully learn something – Dean seems to be pretty lost in thought.

He winces at the possibility of Dean trying to think of something stupid, take back what he just said, in some half ass plan to get Cas, to get out, to stop Lucifer. Or something gross, like where he wishes Cas’ lips were.

Thanks to Gabe, he’s not only broke but scarred for life.

He clicks on Dean’s window, bringing his video feed onto the big screen.

“ _Why would Zachariah put Cas in solitary instead of me?_ ” Is what Sam is brought into. Here is the side of Dean Winchester that protects his family, Sam thinks conceitedly. Zachariah won’t know what hits him.

“ _Why are there so many Supers locked up here too..._ ” Dean pauses to purse his lips before carrying on, “ _Surely that won’t help Lucifer escape. There’s something we’re missing._ ”

Sighing resigned; Dean sits on the lower bunk, barely missing smacking his head on the frame of the bunk above. He is debating about lying down and sleeping, but hastily gets back to his feet. Like he always does when he’s trying to calm down, he starts to hum Metallica and flexes his hands.

Sam turns his attention to Cas. What he sees there is far more surprising.

Without that trenchcoat, and yet the orange suit wasn’t this bad, Cas looks shrunken into himself, withdrawn. Sam zooms in closer to Cas’ deathly still body, sitting upright on the side of the bed. Although he is staring straight ahead, his eyes are glassy and far away. His mouth is moving, mumbling words Sam can’t hear and when he flicks his eyes to meet the camera lens that’s when Sam hears it again.

The noise is louder, and Cas’ imploring eyes aren’t helping. He takes a deep breath and brings up the new window.

Lucifer’s screen is how it always is: he’s perched on a surface, singing... Not this time.

He’s waiting contentedly, slipping off the headboard of his metal bed and striding to the corner where the camera is. Rising to his tip toes, Lucifer smiles. It’s oddly comforting, not manic and rabid.

“Well hello Sam.”

He falls back, headphones pinging off his head and butt crashing hard on the floor. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam can still see Lucifer standing over him. He has his hand out, as though he’s going to help him up.

“Sorry about that kiddo, come on. Up and at ‘em.”

His head pounds and he’s not aware that he’s near screaming until he hears someone else calling his name. It wasn’t this bad when he had visions previously. There’s a hot, white pressure burning behind his eyelids. When his eyes shoot open, he’s breathing hard with wide eyes. Kevin is crouched in front of him, hand on his shoulder. Gabriel’s there too, playful expression scrunched in concern.

“Sam?”

Lucifer leans on the edge of Charlie’s desk, waving with 3 fingers resting on his chin.

 

Dean sleeps horribly that night. In other words, he doesn’t sleep at all. He knows it doesn’t do him any favours, being groggy and jumpy, but he just couldn’t get his mind to shut off. There’s an equation building in his head and they have all the answers to the unknowns _except_ the Supers. It would be logical, he supposes, that Zach is simply carrying out his weird grudge. He’s probably just jealous.

His shift is about to start again and he decidedly ignores the emptiness that has been steadily growing without Cas. A twinge in his jaw aches, which is more prominent than he is used to with his powers. There’s something in the air, powers or not, a shift, a change, a tension and he doesn’t hesitate to stride back over to the mattress. He moves the Bible, fishing gingerly through the assorted weapons to find the biggest blade, bending down to slide it into his shoe.

The guard raps on his door at exactly 9:00 am. Dean numbly places his hands in the gap, rolls his wrists at the customary weight and is lead down to the utilities room. Apparently, due to his ‘behaviour’ he isn’t trusted to work with his cuffs off.

If that wasn’t bad enough, as he snappily pulls out of the guard’s leading hand and trudges over to the dryers, when he looks up to smile at Alfie (the usual officer on duty) old wrinkle face is there waiting for him. His eyes follow him hungrily; he smiles like a wolf.

He’s super, really.

_I am so fucking screwed._

 

They manage to help manoeuvre Sam into one of the chairs. He’s clutching his hair, close to ripping it from his skull. There is too much compressing in his head and while he goes through a state of resting his head on his knees and holding back vomit, he hears that voice again.

“But you best believe, boy, there's hell to pay,  
Yeah you best believe, boy, there's hell to pay, sayin'  
Come on!”

Sam’s thisclose from telling Lucifer to shut the hell up, but he can’t worry his family any more than he is at the moment. Schooling his features in a way that is oh so Winchester, he represses his shudders and tries to blank Lucifer’s singing. He’s not a good singer.

“I’m fine guys really, I just-”

“Sometimes when you're scared to take a look,  
At the corner of the room,  
You've sensed that something's watching you!”

He glares in Luci’s general direction.

“You’re just what, Sam?” Ellen asks, hand on his shoulder and eyes giving him a mother’s stare, willing him to break.

“Headache,” he croaks, forcing his gaze into hers. “I... The suppressor Dean sorted for me, it er, sometimes gives me headaches.”

He can’t centre on her for longer though as his attention is snatched back to Luci typing away on Charlie’s keyboard.

“Come on Sam, talk to me. I know you’re dying to know what’s _really_ going on.”

The condescending look he’s sending Sam’s way should not be doable on a grown ass man. Flicking his wrist, the screen pivots towards him and Sam squints to see what’s on the screen. He doesn’t realise he’s actually moving until he feels some hands encouraging him to sit down. Luckily for him, he’s huge compared to all of them and ploughs on to Charlie’s station.

He pulls up the exact video feed Lucifer had up and for the first time doesn’t flinch when he hears him whispering in his ear.

“Look at what they’re doing Sam.”

On the screen is a Demon – that much he’s certain – shifting nervously. He’s dressed in white, in the solitary confinement rooms. He spares a fleeting glance to check on Cas, who hasn’t moved and that’s when the Demon loses it.

He pushes the bed against the door with a frightening speed, whipping a small razor blade from under the frame and slicing shallowly into the pads of his fingertips. Then he rushes to a wall, possessed, frenzied, painting in his own blood a sigil.

People are trying to bust their way through the door to no prevail; ridiculous considering it is a simple metal framed bed placed there. Sam’s caught in the space of a blink and having his eyes open when he thinks he sees Lucifer holding a hand out to the door, a thin lipped smile on his drained face.

He can only think that though because when he turns his head Lucifer is still right there.

“The eye of Sauron is on me.” Charlie gasps, shooing Sam’s huge hands away from her keyboard, typing quickly then standing back as hundreds of screenshots appear on the big TV screen.

All of the small windows showing a similar situation of symbols, sigils and words, written in blood and chanted in a monotonous mumble. Kevin stumbles over himself to get his books, Bobby joins him and Sam stares blankly at Lucifer.

“Keep watching, things are about to get interesting.”

 

Dean’s pretty sure he has been groping into an empty tumble dryer for the past 5 minutes. Problem is, he finds it hard to focus, especially with Mr Douchebag watching his every move and the fact that he can move his hands a grand distance of about 20 cm apart. So, he accepts his fate, pushing the cart along in a moment of clarity and removing the next load.

It’s around about this time when things start to go absolutely tits up.

A siren sounds somewhere in another part of the prison and everyone’s head snaps up. Zachariah bustles out of the room, returning not 10 seconds later, his face paler than before. Some of the Demons on duty start trying to push the washing machines over, ganging up on the few officers like bees to wasps.

Dean manages to knock one out, using the corner of his cuffs against a man running past him on his temple. They crumple to the floor and he doesn’t even register the near booming crash of a machine collapsing before Zachariah has his gun in the air and shoots.

The room freezes.

Plumes of washing powder mushroom in the stillness, a few people in the process of pushing the tipped machine towards the door, which would effectively trap them all here.

“Listen up you little shits, I want you all on the floor, hands on your heads.”

Dean nearly chokes on a laugh when one of the clearly less experienced guards starts to move. Nevertheless, they all get on their fronts, hands interlinked on their heads. Looking up, Dean watches Zachariah sneer as he walks past him to talk to the guards. He is facing one of the Demons, who looks completely at ease with their situation.

“When is a prison break not a prison break?” He mutters to himself, wiggling his hips at the awkward position he’s laid down in.

A loud buzz sounds, followed by hollering and screaming. It’s a riot. Full blown, according to one of the officers. There aren’t enough people here to stop it, and somehow all communications to the outside have been cut off. The crackles of a walkie talkie breaks the man’s conversation, and Dean surmises that somehow, Lucifer has turned this into his own penthouse playpen.

No one leaves until they’re told they can and no one arrives uninvited.

“When is a prison break _not_ a prison break?” he repeats, frustrated and cramping in his arms and legs. Regardless of what the guards do, they should have their hands full by the sounds coming from outside the door, he sits up.

“What if it’s not a prison break.” He states, not a question, no, that must be it. A Demon looks up at him sharply, eyes disconnected and feral.

One of the guards overhears him and tells him to get his head back on the ground. Then Zachariah decides to put his foot in it and as soon as he’s close enough, ripping Dean’s head back by the short strands of his head, he rushes to his feet. The speed of his movement is enough to catch the old man off guard; Dean winces at the sheerness of the clunk as Zach’s head slams into the front of a washing machine door and knocks him thoroughly unconscious.

“He’s still breathing,” Dean says, hands in the air to the much shakier guard with a taser pointed at his chest. It’s a mere technicality, but, given his history, that taser probably would incapacitate him – old heart injury and all. “And we have bigger problems to deal with right now.”

A crash distracts the man and that’s all the window he needs to run. He dashes past the vaguely oblivious guard and into the corridor.

Where he is met by complete and utter chaos.

A chaos he’s inexplicably close to falling into were it not for the impressive chant of his own of _CasCasCasCas._

He still has no clue what’s going on, but he does know that he needs to get to Cas and that Cas is in solitary, which, by extension, is where they need to be anyway. Moving quickly he dodges round the people, mayhem induced insanity, and he stops to glance at something someone has written on a wall.

_DCLXVI_

Roman numerals for 666, aka the Devil. How comforting.

The place is a mess, carts tipped over and unconscious people littering the hallways. He starts to come into the cells on this floor, horrified when he finds that all the doors are wide open. Chancing a glance, he finds them empty and most with weird shit written on the walls in blood.

He’s not looking where he’s going as he moves; going on blind faith that he’ll find a stairway with a map to the right area. It’s this blindness that causes him to crash full force into a laundry cart.

“Dean?!”

Dean’s head whips up, the angry snark on the tip of his tongue dissolves into a disbelieving one syllable answer.

“Sammy?”

“Oh thank God,” Sam grabs his arm, pulling him in the way that he had been coming from. There’s a closed door, staff most likely, that Sam swipes a card through and it pings open. Inside is a madness free staircase and prison map.

He finally realises that this is Sam, here, and-

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

Offering only a pained bitchface, Sam closes the door behind them. Benny, Garth, Ash and Jo smile at him in greeting. They’re all dressed as janitors or delivery personnel and Dean can’t help the laugh that bubbles out, looking at Benny shoved into a tight blue jumpsuit.

He manages to control himself, expectant eyes watching him. He clears his throat and accepts the paper clip to get the cuffs off his wrists.

“It’s not a break out.”

“I know. They’re not breaking out. He’s trying to keep all the people with powers _in_.”

How is Dean the only one gaping like a mindless fish?

“Why?” He breathes, very aware of the limit of time now. He accepts an earpiece from Ash, slipping it in.

“The hell if I know man.” Sam huffs and then they come to a standstill.

Oh right, they’re looking to Dean to come up with a plan?! He snorts to himself, they want the same guy that got himself and his boyfriend arrested on a whimsical plan to come up with something to stop Lucifer from doing God knows what. They need to find a better person to put their faith in, Sammy for example, but even his eyes are wide and hopeful if not worn and frayed.

They have a silent brotherly conversation conferring Dean’s very clear ‘we’ll talk about this in a minute’.

“Alright.” He purses his lips. “Ash, Jo and Garth, you’re on trying to get everyone out. I mean everyone. Heroes, Demons, Creatures... All of them.”

They nod and split away from them. Benny and Sam wait patiently for him to lead on.

“And we’ll save Cas and kick some Satan ass!”

He hopes he sounded more confident than he feels.

Running through the empty, stairwell they make their way hastily to the solitary units.

“So what’s with the blood finger paintings?” Dean questions, panting slightly.

“Working on it.” Comes a muffled reply through his earpiece.

“Kevin. Man, is it good to hear your sweet voice.” He says, smiling in spite of everything. He hears the huff of laughter in the background, spurring on as they explode through another door into the solitary wards.  

“Well now this is just creepy brother.”

Dean nods, dazedly in response. It’s about all he can muster in the epic eeriness of this part of the prison. Where everywhere else is alive with activity, the whole corridor is deathly silent.

“Benny, I want you to circle back and clear the rest of this floor. Me and Sammy will get Cas.”

He grimaces, an almost smile, before turning sharply and stalking in the opposite direction. Remembering his knife, he shakes his shoe off and picks up the sharp tool.

It’s a shame they didn’t manage to finish the gun.

“Cas?” Dean calls out; Sam checking the rooms on the left, Dean checking those on the right.

The paintings, if you can call them that, are far more graphic here. Streaky thin lines of crimson coat the walls of empty cells.

“What’s up with your head, Sammy?”

He pushes open a shut door, clearing it and side eying his brother.

“I can see Lucifer.” Sam mumbles, continuing on.

Dean pins him to a wall, the blade in his hand cutting faintly into his palm. “For how long.”

Easily pushing Dean off of him, Sam motions for them to keep going. “Not long, but long enough.”

It’s the resignation and defeat in Sam’s tone that keeps him going.

They can hear voices up ahead. Sam flexes his hand around the gun he pulls from the back of his janitor disguise, clicking off the safety. Approaching cautiously, they reach the last floor at the end of the row.

“There is no such thing as villains!” He hisses, anger pumping through his veins so loud Dean can hear it from where he stands.

“Then what are you?” That’s definitely Cas growling and Dean is caught between crying in relief or recoiling in apprehension.

Pushing through the door, Dean smirks cockily, signalling behind his back for Sam to wait.

Both men stop their shouting fest to concede his presence. Cas’ eyes speak for his lips. Dean tightens his grip on the blade in his hand.

“Hate to break it to you, but you pretty much fit the description of every Disney villain _ever_.”

“There are no villains,” He repeats, “Only what’s left of broken heroes.”


	22. Wings Of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zachariah is an asshole.
> 
> Lucifer shares a story.
> 
> Cas does something stupid.
> 
> Dean needs to stop out doing people when they do something stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *deep breath*
> 
> So this is it.
> 
> Also, GuiltyBystanders, where you at bud? Are you ok? You and Inferification are like my best friends on here (LET ME LOVE YOU) and I mean in general, are you ok? Or was the last chapter that bad?
> 
> This is your warning ok. Grab your tissues, cookies, ice cream, whatever it is that helps. I hope I wrote it well. Well fuck, I made myself cry writing it.
> 
> *exhales* Please comment, if you haven't on any other chapter, I would super duper appreciate your thoughts on how it went. 
> 
> Apologies for mistakes.

He nearly staggers at the intensity of the power burning in Lucifer’s eyes, emotion that should be long since extinguished, white hot fury that had been bottled up for decades, erupting, encapsulating the room. There’s a fire consuming him, something deep inside that the papers missed and the carers didn’t look for. But Dean can see it, hell from his vantage point across the room he can _feel_ it.

Lucifer keeps his gaze on him as Dean edges over to Cas. The three of them are held in silence, penetrated only by heavy breaths and an oppressive air hanging around them. He can hear the other people on the line inside his ear muttering to one another; he is about to question Lucifer further when someone bursts through the door.

“Dean Winchester.”

_Ergh that voice._

He glances to the door where Zachariah, with an impressive lump on his forehead, hauls Sam in by the arm.

“And this must be little Sam Winchester,” Zach jiggles Sam’s arm for emphasis, keeping a gun to his side.

“Hello Sam,” Lucifer greets, diverting his attention completely away from Cas and Dean.

In this lapse of attention, Dean nudges Cas’ side slipping him a small blade into his palm and conveying every question – that is possible to do – in an arch of eyebrows and squint of eyes. His jaw locks when he hears Lucifer tsk.

“Zachariah, you look old.”

Lucifer may be a homicidal manic, with a death toll that would scare a terrorist, but man if he doesn’t receive a smidge of respect for knocking Zach down a peg. He can’t help the smirk and huff of laughter at the severe look of disgust on the old man’s face.

“You think yourself above everyone else, just because you are _different_. Your differences are your weaknesses; you will never be an equal to people, Luci.”

Wandering in the small space unoccupied by people, Lucifer perches on his bed. He throws his hands out and stretches his arms in a shrug, not looking insulted by what Zach said. Dean gets the distinct feeling that a lot of his ‘story’ was not truly told. He thinks Cas must have decided so too, if the way he tenses and the pads of his fingertips graze the back of Dean’s hand.

“We _are_ better _._ Alas pretty soon you’ll only have me to worry about.”

Hastily standing up (which gets a flinch from the old man and a continued confused and interested expression from Sam) Lucifer flips his mattress to reveal sigils, carved and painted in crimson. He again shrugs, staring Zach down with an intense cold hatred.

“You think your powers make you special? I brought them all here for you. Me: a human.” To which Cas scoffs. “What makes you think that you are wort-“

“Man have you got issues!” Dean looks at Zachariah in disbelief. The man is so god damn petty. He doesn’t like Supers, they get it. A part of Dean internally high fives for working out that Zachariah is in fact jealous, heh.

Cas and Sam shoot him pained, equally intense, bitchfaces. Or as he likes to call Cas’, ‘Dean’s an idiot’ face.

Realisation chooses then to hit Dean smack in the face. All this time... He had seen the papers. The faces of unmasked fellow heroes alongside the sadistic smirks of bad guys printed in black and white. _Zachariah_. That’s what’s happened to all the Supers. Everyone collected in maximum security prison, at the mercy of the most manipulative man ever to live – named after Satan himself – awaiting their deaths. Or whatever it is Lucifer actually has planned out.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Luci nods, striding towards Sam and Zach. Dean starts to move, but Cas’ hand stops him. It’s a minute shake of his head and a twitch towards the bed that makes Dean realise that Sam and Cas had been communicating the whole damn time. He nods once. Sam’s the bait; Dean and Cas are the fixers.

“Why are you doing this?” Sam gasps as Lucifer rips him from Zachariah by his chin, keeping their faces level and eyes locked. The old man notably moves back a step, apparently repulsed by the very aura Lucifer emits.

Shuffling to the bed, Cas silently scans the sigils and symbols, working quickly to cut his arm and break some of the patterns. Dean stands with his back to him, keeping an eye on both of the surly inhabitants of the room.

 

“Why am I...?” He steps back, affronted, letting his arm keep him and Sam connected but increase the space between them. Sighing, Lucifer pouts and drops his hand. “Let me show you.”

He grabs Sam by the hair with both hands, yanking him forward until his wide eyes are centimetres in front of his own. Surprisingly, he closes his eyes and starts to hum. Dean’s certain it is ‘Stairway to Heaven’.

Sam crumples to the ground. Lucifer follows him down so they’re raggedly crossed legged opposite each other. This time, Dean doesn’t yield, he watches on guard for if shit goes down, stealing fleeting checks on what Cas is doing.

“Argh.” Sam groans, grappling his hands over the ones holding onto his head.

_There’s two children playing. The older, with brown hair and bright eyes, pushes the smaller boy on the swing in the garden. On the porch, a young father watches them fondly. The sun dips low in the sky, making the younger child moan about having to go to bed so early._

_“But Mikey gets to stay up.” He mumbles, fiddling with his brother’s larger fingers._

_“I know Luci,” The man bends down, lifting the sulking blond child into his arms. “But when you’re a bit older...” He carries him up the stairs and to the bedroom. Protesting all the while, as he is changed and washed, until the moment he is sat in bed, face contorted in a yawn, the child smiles._

_“Father, I don’t think I’m like Mikey.” He says uncertainly. It’s not something they’ve ever discussed but he knows a few boys from nursery that are... Different. He wonders if this means he’s different too. Would Mikey mind? Would father mind? Working himself into a panic, he stops when his father reaches forward to playfully boop him on the nose._

_“I know, I saw.”_

_He blinks up at his Father, wide eyed._

_Gently tucking him into bed, the man perches on the edge. “You remember when you were upset at nursery,” he nods, “You manifested to me. I thought I was going crazy.” He chuckles. “You are a very special boy.”_

Sam screams till his throat is hoarse, shaking his head uncontrollably. His limbs feel as though they’re being torn apart, his head imploding from the inside.

“Sorry about this.” He draws back a moment, allowing Sam a few seconds to cope with what he’d seen.

And Sam actually thinks he can detect the apology in his tone, not false words. He wiggles his fingers again, the pressure increasing to a point that has Sam choking silently, writhing in agony.

_“Mikey, why are you doing this?” He swallows, watching as his big brother drags two suitcases out of the house._

_“Oh little brother.” Hesitating, Michael goes to and then thinks better of hugging him. “We are not the same. We will never be the same. What you’re doing... It’s wrong. You creatures are_ wrong.”

_The words hurt him like no punch ever has. No bully has broken him down so absolutely than the sneer of loathing written across his brother’s face. He looks down at his feet. He didn’t ask to be like this, this wasn’t his fault. If he had the choice he would change it, he would give it all up to make his Dad and big brother happy._

_He’s a nuisance. Having powers is a disadvantage, an inconvenience. Lucifer clenches his fists, harder and harder until his blunt nails prick the skin._

_He was 17 then. Barely old enough to remember what it was before, when Michael used to laugh and play with him. Now he can hardly manage to so much as glance at him. They had fought that day, the bruise blooming across Michael’s cheek. Lucifer bites back the tears._

_“So this is goodbye, brother?”_

_He didn’t look back._

_Three days later Lucifer is standing on his porch, his father crying as he hands him the bags. He begged, begged like a drowning man for water, for Michael to come back. On his terms, however._

Finally letting go, Lucifer lets Sam crumple on the floor, breath heavy and strained. He always did wonder how it would be if he were a psychic. He scans Sam’s recovering form, perhaps more trouble than it is worth.

“What, your little mind trick is supposed to be impressive?” Zachariah snorts, jerking uneasily on the balls of his feet. He shoots him a levelling glare.

If only that fool knew.

What he had just done was share something with Sam and in return, Sam shared something with him. A suppressed premonition - unfortunate and unavoidable given his prison status -  which told him all he needed to know. It all comes down to Fate.

“I never did like you, Zachariah.” He says tone flat and bored.

As Fate would have it, Zachariah is power hungry and jealous. He intends to kill all of them, Lucifer, Dean, Sam and Cas, and absorb the powers for himself. The audacity of the Chief still amuses him, considering he wouldn’t even be anywhere near the nuclear bomb that is a power spell.

Then he chants some Enochian and lunges over Sam to stab Zachariah in the neck.

 

Dean inhales sharply. People always beat him to the punch line.

“So you see-“ He turns away from the slumping body, wiping the edge of a miraculously appearing blade before dropping it brusquely to the floor. “What are you doing?!”

Mouth flapping, Dean tries to think of something distracting. “What this? Oh it’s uh nothing.” He tries to shield more of Cas, hoping to whoever’s listening that he’s almost done.

Lucifer strides over Sam, getting straight into Dean’s face (and frankly into personal space that he has reserved and labelled as ‘Cas/Angel’) scowl close enough for Dean to feel it radiate off him. There it is again, channeled hate and sorrow bottled in the depth of his eyes. Dean pities him. He really does.

 “Sam get out of here.”

He uses the tone that he knows will work. The same voice that told him to run, to never look back and the words that mean he’s going to take care of it. Just like when they were kids and just like when Sammy had gotten himself in trouble.

Blearily scrambling to his feet, Sam is scarcely on two legs before Lucifer is throwing Dean across the room. His head hits the wall with a crack loud enough to make Cas falter in his actions. There’s a pool of blood drifting near to his cheek and he hopes it’s the sound of Sam’s footsteps running away and not blood leaking out of his ears.

If he could maintain a coherent thought other than, ‘fuck my head fucking hurts’, he would think about pitying him anyway. It felt like he was trapped in a vice grip, a wet sensation pooling at the side of his head. The so called padded walls felt concrete hard, which is just Dean’s luck as he blinks sporadically. His ears ring and he was seriously surprised a guy like Lucifer could throw him like a fucking linebacker. He struggles to get his vision to focus as he sways to his feet.

“Sammy, go. All of you. Go.” He thinks it came out a lot weaker than he had intended, but hopefully his mic isn’t fucked and they heard him. They have to get out. Things are about to go from bad to really super fucking shit; call Dean crazy but not all the powerless Supers in the block are going to be enough back up. Only, the backup they’ve got is family and when this thing goes down? It’s most definitely not going to be his brother at ground 0.

_Most importantly: take care of Sammy._

“Dean.”

_Fuck. When did Cas get over here?_

His eyes catch a glimpse of blue and red. There are strong hands framing his face, a soft kiss tingling on his lips. It’s far too short for Dean’s liking, although he can feel his vision hazing again and he wouldn’t want to miss the action. Using Cas as a brace, he stands up fully.

“You think you two can stop me?”

Lucifer is back by the bed, angrily skimming over the damage Cas had made to his plans. Unfortunately, he’s adaptable.

“This is for you Michael.”

He starts to chant. Dean goes to tumble forward, to tackle him or stab him or do something. But Cas stops him. Cas will always be there to protect him; he looks at him with his ‘what?!’ face.

“Dean,” Cas chokes out, “I’m not the hero you deserve. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s eyes all but bulge out of his head. _What the fuck is Cas talking about?_ He’s everything good that Dean isn’t, he’s been the hero he’s known and -

“But you’re the one I need.” Dean croaks back. The blood in his ears is pumping so loud and his not love confession actually earns a sarcastic intake of breath from Lucifer.

For a split second, Cas says and does nothing. The room becomes a void, eclipsing time and evading all purpose. They understand each other, even if they’re looking at one another in silence. There’s nothing more than the sad, _loving_ , expression on Cas’ face and Dean feels himself tumbling headfirst off the cliff he’d always kept cautioned off. He doesn’t fight it; he closes his eyes and let’s himself fall.

He loves him-

\-- Dean Winchester fell in love. With an angel. With _the_ Angel. His Dad’s probably tossing and turning in his grave.

Time clicks back into place. Cas turns away from Dean, hand braced on his chest pushing him back. Ripping open his shirt, with a force that pops the last of the buttons, he faces Lucifer head on, unwavering before the far more powerful Super.

“You should not have used such basic Enochian, Lucifer.”

Cas slams a hand into his bloody and carved chest, adorned with very similar patterns Dean had healed months ago.

 

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” Lucifer screams, but Dean can’t hear it.

The sound of popping and crackling fills the air. That’s _Cas_ screaming, some malformation of his name. He’s reaching out for him, Dean reaching back at the time when he is brought to his knees. Pain slices through every cell, like someone has chosen to do a vasectomy on the fibre of his being. Everyone’s screaming, he’s pretty sure he’s crying because the pain hurts more than his fucking head and he’s either going to pass out or die there and then.

Suddenly, the dimly lit room is thrust into a bright light. Too vivid, it should hurt to look at. But Dean can’t look away. It’s not just light. Cas’ beautiful black wings are shining and _growing_. Dean opens his mouth to say anything, finding himself choking on another shout.

There’s something slithering up his throat. He coughs, gagging while he’s trying to get it out. His head is thrown back, knees aching on the hard floor when a light rises out of his mouth. It glints, hues of blue and black surrounding a tear shaped bubble.

His power.

In a moment, it’s shooting forward and becoming a part of Cas’ wings. The room is shaking. Cas isn’t even on the ground anymore. It looks like he’s being assumed into heaven. Dean’s breath is knocked out of him. Yelling, Cas’ gravel tone becomes a high pitched screech, his voice wavering across frequencies.

Cas’ body drops to the ground. The wings droop, no less intense, just resting, beside his body.

“What’s wrong with his wings?” Lucifer has managed to calm down enough to ask a serious question. Dean spares him a glance. He looks wrecked. His face is nearly peeling from being so close to Cas’ wings.

 “They’re a physical manifestation of his powers, _our_ powers.” Dean says, mesmerised by the flashes of colour, stepping closer where Lucifer is moving further away...

The wings shimmer with light, colours flowing in bright blues and pinks and whites. It looks alive, another part of Cas extending out.

“He’s going to die.” Whispering, Lucifer meets Dean’s gaze.

The motionless lump of limbs and body straightens with a frightening speed. Cas’ posture is stiff, his wings flicking out either side of him to keep his balance as he stands.

He does not regard Dean.

“What radius?” Cas asks impassively.

He shakes his head. “You weren’t built to take this much power Angel. I don't know. A lot.”

Cas regards Lucifer slowly, searching his body language for something, anything, but fuck if Dean knows what. Then he nods, decisively.

 In a daze, Dean lunges forward, his eyes fixed on where Cas is grabbing onto Lucifer’s shuddering shoulder.

The ground disappears and reappears around them; Dean is thrown back into the rising dust. Lucifer is discarded carelessly from Cas’ side, still wracked with an emotional repression Dean can’t place, as Cas advances on him angrily.

He manages to stop his head from spinning and instantly seeks out Cas’ secure blue eyes. Their gazes lock.

Only his eyes aren’t blue... 

They are white. 

“I remember you, and I remember everything.” His voice booms like thunder.

 

Dean has to look away. What that means is that Cas remembers Alastair, the _kiss_ all the times Dean’s healed him. It’s not an expression, betrayal, sadness, disgust, Dean wants to see on Cas’ face. It would break him.

“Look at me.” The power from his tone has softened to a hum, and when was Dean able to deny Cas anything?

He moves his head cautiously, holding back a sob at what he sees. Cas looks far worse than Lucifer. The tanned skin on his face is shedding in uneven blotches, showing balls of light beneath. It’s like Cas has been boiled, the whole of him tearing at the seams.

“There you are.”

Cas smiles.

It’s the last thing Dean sees before Cas turns his back to him.

“Bobby,” He says weakly. If his mic still works, Bobby will be the only one he’s certain to be on the line. Everyone else is most probably flailing over the aftermath of Cas’... Promotion.

“I’m here boy.”

Dean painstakingly swallows, tears welling behind his closed eyes.

“It’s bad Bobby.” He murmurs, discarding the half broken earpiece and striding towards Cas. He doesn’t know if they’ll be able to find them. He just knows that he won’t leave Cas. Not on this plane or the next. He’s his partner, in every sense of the word.

Cas is punching Lucifer in the face, cursing him in a foreign language Dean’s thrumming ears can’t hear. It’s all becoming muddled, the lines of Cas’ trenchcoat fading into the blood from Lucifer’s face.

“Cas stop.”

He does. Lucifer’s beat body drops to the floor, head landing on top of a grave. He realises where they are: the edge of the city.

The same graveyard he’d been standing in not long enough ago. He’d thought about bringing Cas here, when it was all over. To let him meet Mom, Dad.

Cas falls to his knees, fingers mindlessly clawing at his shirt.

“It hurts, Dean.” He groans, wings shuddering. The light appears to have faded, or dimmed or perhaps they look less there. Almost alive, they breathe with Cas, shaking and shifting with Cas’ uncomfortable cries.

Dean gravitates towards him.

“No, Dean you have to go.” He gasps, a sharp pain making him collapse forward, head pressed into the soft ground. “Go.” It’s muffled by his position and Dean’s sure that even if he was in his right mind (get it, because he hit his head and –) he wouldn’t listen to Cas. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch and he is _not_ letting Cas die.

Sliding behind Cas, he takes no notice of the heat that is given off by the wings. He presses close, hearing faintly the soft singe of his shirt. Cas struggles, with the little energy he has to move away.

_He’s breaking and I’m breaking too._

Like a clockwork toy, in perfect sync.

A burst of power shocks through him, the reverberations vibrating through Dean’s body too.

“Dean you have to-“

It’s too late.

With a scream, the wings burst into flaming light. To this, Dean closes his eyes and holds on, pressing kisses to the burning skin and fabric. He clutches Cas tight, feeling Cas’ hands entwining in his own. They sit like that, Dean rocking Cas through the pain and once it’s done, Cas’ head drops back onto Dean’s shoulder, his wings nothing more than skeletons of what they were. He is assaulted by the acute sense of shoving a large object through a small hole, the pieces of his powers reshaped and dented in his cells.

It hurts them both.

He’s never seen Cas cry.

His chest burns with the flame of 1000 suns; he can’t bring himself to look. The smell of popping body fat and blistered skin clings to them as fiercely as they cling to each other. Leaning against a gravestone, Dean shuffles himself back, holding in the wince to his chest. He can feel blood dripping down; his head has become a pain that he’s separated from the rest of his body. Carefully repositioning Cas, he crosses his legs, making it so Cas is lying on his back, the bare bones of wings outstretched with a charred shadow either side of them.

 “Stay.” Dean blurts, cradling Cas’ head in his hands.

“With you?” Cas asks frailly after several moments.

“With me.” Holding his breath, he tries not to let the tears fall. A single one drops, landing a cool splash on Cas’ clammy forehead. His hair, once ruffled, matted in blood and sweat.

Silence falls between them. His head aches with a fierce force, his skull cracking in two. His chest smoulders with the lasting burn of Cas’ wings. He won’t look down to trace the scars of such beauty emblazoned across his flesh. Dean panics slightly, willing his hands, his powers, to do _something_.

“It won’t work,” Cas chokes up a glob of blood, wheezing at the effort, “You are human, for now.”

He doesn’t know whether he’s sobbing for Cas or for how he finds himself utterly helpless to do anything about it.

“Dean,” Cas swallows, “Sing for me?”

Stroking his thumb over Cas’ strong cheekbone, he shifts Cas’ head so it’s more comfortable in his crossed legs, absently running his fingers through his hair. He clears his throat. The air around them is still, the dirt singed and grass charred beneath them, leaving the lingering scent of scorched earth.

“So you brought out the best of me,” Dean sings, voice breaking.

Slowly, the depth of Cas’ chest lessens.

“A part of me I've never seen.”

Dean lets the tears fall freely. Cas no longer scrunches his face up and the sensation.

“You took my soul and wiped it clean.”

Cas’ lips part in a soft sigh.

“Our love was made for movie screens.”

Pressing their foreheads together, Dean pushes away how he can no longer feel Cas move, how the strained breaths no longer exhale gently against his face. He won’t let himself see the bright blue eyes glassy and unfocused. The blood has stained his hands, his clothes. No he won’t stop the tears from falling. Cas means everything to him and he can’t just be _gone_.

His wounds sluggishly bleed into Cas’ own. Like fresh watercolours running into one another uncontrollably.

He closes his eyes and lets oblivion take them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were like 10 of you who commented on my change to MCD so:  
> a) are you ok?  
> b) seriously, I'm checking up on y'all.  
> c) did /I/ do ok?


	23. Something Old, Something New, Something...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Jess' wedding.
> 
> Such a beautiful ceremony.
> 
> Dean's best man's speech...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The end, I'm so sorry for the pain :c 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and my terrible updating, maybe we'll meet again for any of my upcoming au's c: 
> 
> Thank you so so much. You reading this, and all the comments, mean everything to me.
> 
> /You guys are going to hate me/

Dean stands in front of the pews filled with friendly faces and family. His eyes meet Cas’; he’s stood at the back, leaning against a pillar dressed in a black tux that makes him look drop dead gorgeous. But that is for later. Right now: his best man speech.

Smiling, he gives his little brother a ruffle of his hair.

“Hi everybody, so it’s the part you’ve all been waiting for; fear not, the good looking Winchester is here to enlighten you to the completely riveting man that is Sammy. And I’ve even got some juicy bits on Jess, ‘cos she’s a little sister to me now and that means no one is excluded!”

_We’ve lost so many already..._

He pauses, _that was weird_. Jess shoots him a dirty and disbelieving look. Sam squeezes her hand.

“To aid in my awesome storytelling, Ash managed to hook up this big ass projector behind me so you can see for yourselves what a fine youth Sam was.”

The first slide clicks on. It’s a picture of Sam with his pants on his head and his stubby legs shoved through the top of a shirt.

“Ah yes,” Dean smiles, “From an early age, Sam liked to use his initiative. Here we see a 2 year old Sam showing off his dressing talents. Thank God I was here today; poor guy couldn’t sort his bow tie from his shoe laces.” 

There were chuckles and awws spread across the room. Confidence gaining he moves onto the next slide.

“We moved around a lot growing up but that didn’t stop him from showing his teachers and his big brother that he was a smart kid.”

_I can’t lose him, not after Ash... Cas..._

He shakes his head.

The next picture showed a maybe 7 or 8 Sam with his report card and a great red A in the corner. His teeth were goofy and Dean had clearly taken the picture on his phone because it was slightly angled and the light hazy.

“Looking good Sammy, let’s see how your counterpart was getting on.”

As the slide changes, laughter spreads through the room. On the screen is Jess, young and bright blond curls pulled back, wearing a massive pout and had her arms wrapped furiously over her midriff.

“Huh, now Jess you want to share what caused you to look so mad?”

Jess is still chuckling, red peppering her cheeks. “Uh, yeah. That was after my first kiss.”

Laughter fills the church again.

“Oh they do learn quick. As a matter of fact, I remember Sam asking me how to kiss girls. It’s a lesson that only a big brother can teach; I’m certain he didn’t take my advice when he came over to me with a red mark on his cheek.”

He clicks the slide on.

“So I’m back tracking now for the great missed opportunity of Sam’s claim to fame. Most of you don’t know this, ‘cause Sammy doesn’t like to talk about it, but when he was 5 he really wanted to be a baseball player.”

Putting his head in his hands, Sam groans.

“What you are looking at up there was my great technique to keep Mr Intelligent busy one afternoon. I’m the handsome one on the right, Superman, and little Sammy was Batman. Those of you will know Batman’s my favourite, but Sam pulled what I named ‘bitch fits’ to match his ‘bitch face’ mixed with puppy dog eyes.” He shakes his head, chuckling at the true terror that Sam could unsheathe if he wanted to.

_The doctors aren’t saying much; Dean, Dean if you can hear me I need you to wake up... Please. Dean. You’re my big brother... You promised._

He blinks, clearing his throat and putting on a smile for the crowd. There’s a static in his ear, a far away voice but he continues on.

“Anyway, we ‘acquired’ a couple of bikes and peddled to this old shed I’d seen on the way into town. ‘Cause I’m the big brother, I climbed on top of the thing, instructing Sam to wait for me at the bottom, and did my best Christopher Reeve voice and jumped. I landed fine, hearing enthusiastic clapping from above me. Damn kid fell off that roof with the grace of a moose. I biked him back to the motel on my handle bars.” He sniggers, “Poor Sam was too scared to pick up the bat again. We both learnt a good lesson that day, didn’t we Sammy?”

“You jumped first!” Sam retorts, grinning at his brother.

“Yeah, ‘cause I was Superman. Everyone knows that Batman can’t fly!”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.” He laughs, ignoring the increasing pressure in his head. Slowly, he clicks through a few more slides, showing them together and Sam getting progressively older.

“I think this was the last time I ever looked down on you.” Sounding mournful, Dean pauses for a minute. “Well, it would be unfair for me to get all the good genes.”

There are two pictures on the screen, both of cars in varying degrees of destruction. Sam and Jess snicker in embarrassment, the audience cackling – especially Jess’ family and the Harvelle’s.

“This is the example of why a moose and moosette should not be allowed to drive. Sam’s first drive sent us smack into one of the other junkers at Bobby’s. Jess’ completely took out a tree, sapling though it was. It seems, cliché as it will sound, they are a match made in Heaven.”

_His vitals aren’t looking good. Charlie, he’s a healing Super why can’t he heal himself?! He has to make it out of this... He has too._

_We didn’t even get the chance to tell him he’s going to be an uncle._

Downing his glass of champagne, he rubs a finger in his ear. It’s like a TV is being turned on in there, and it’s loud, overbearing background noise. He scrolls through some pictures of Sam and Jess together, stopping at the one of them at Halloween.

“Thankfully, Sam learnt his lesson when he was 5 and went as Superman when Jess dragged him out for Halloween. It is not our favourite holiday; we never actually celebrated it as kids.” _We fought monsters on a daily basis, why celebrate that?_ “But Jess can be really convincing. I should know. I too have fallen victim to being dragged into a shopping trips with her.” Dean sighs half-heartedly.

The pictures carry on their story: showing Jess and Sam in all kinds of cute and fluffy situations, even dragging Dean and Cas into some of the more recent ones. Dean stops before the last slide.

_Dean, this is your q-queen. We’re all kinda lost without you. I’m-_

“That’s their story so far. From the boy to a man, maybe you can get him to cut his hair Jess? Anyway, I know I’ve got some people to thank for making their day as special as possible. Ellen, Bobby, Novak’s and all the Moore’s, you guys are just great. Brady, Ash, and Jo for the pictures. What’s important though, is these two soppy asses beside me who have got their whole lives ahead of them together. I’m gunna say this once, ‘cause this was already too feelsy... I love you both.”

Taking a deep breath, Dean clicks it onto the last slide.

The first picture is of Dean, Sam and John going on a hunting trip, looking younger and more innocent at that age. The other, is of Mary cradling baby Sam in her arms in the bright summer sun.

Sam’s breath stutters.

“Sam, I know that I speak for Mom and Dad when I say that I’m proud of you.” Dean turns to the people ahead of him, raising his empty glass in the air sharply, trying not to cry. “To Sam and Jess... Now let’s go cut that not-pie monstrosity!”

_What’s happening?! What-_

Cas is smiling at him from the back, Dean decides to down the person whose glass is full next to his in one and makes his way to the man. Closing the gap, Cas holds Dean strong in his arms.

_Beep.......... Beep............. Beep........._

“Cas?” Dean mumbles into Cas’ neck, loving the feel of his just shaved skin against Cas’ stubble. But the feeling is fading, _Cas_ is draining of colour.

“You were both amusing and enthralling.”

Cas’ face flushes in colour again. He blinks. That must be some really strong champagne, or his emotions are getting the better of him.

“Time for you to see your favourite musician live.” Dean winks, pressing his lips against Cas’.

_Beep......... Beep............._

He quirks an eyebrow at him. “I thought Elvis was dead.”

Turning, Dean faces an empty church.

He whirls round to find Cas standing there, no he has not left him. Where did everyone else go?

_Dean?! Hey stop pushing me out of here! That’s my BROTHER._

The church is grey, so grey, disappearing in front of his eyes. He looks down at his hands. Red droplets form across his pale skin. Pain. Deep and ricocheting in his head, his heart, his chest. A hand. A hand tilts his chin up. It’s Cas. Shrouded in light; eyes ablaze with love and adoration.

“We don’t fight anymore Dean.” He says softly.

“What? But what about-“ _Samsamsamsamsam_

He thinks in a mantra, he does fight. He has to, to protect his brother.

“Sam will be fine.” Cas assures him, “He’s starting a family Dean. You saved him, he’s safe now... Dean, are you with me?”

There were so many things he wanted to do – to have a life with Cas. He was going to get a Robin (or whatever Cas’ preference would be) costume so they could do hospital rounds together. They could have gone on awesome dates to the movies and old diners. He wanted to see Cas’ face, illuminated by the moon at 5am when they’re driving in the Impala. And he realises, that this is what Cas had asked.

Their eyes meet. Cas presses one sweet kiss on Dean’s lips, light surrounding them both in shining wings.

“Yeah Angel, I’m with you.”

_...................................................................................................................................................._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> Private Fears In Public Places - Front Porch Step  
> 4 am - daughtry  
> Dance with the devil - Breaking Benjamin  
> Blood on my name - The Wright Brothers  
> All I want - Kodaline


	24. Not All Heroes Are Super

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to the epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written because of Kare and the amazing point made.

When he first told his Mom that Batman had healed him, she was too relieved to take him seriously. She had said that that’s great, honey, I’m glad Batman made you better. Frowning, he realised she did not believe him.

But Batman really _did_ heal him and he wanted to go back to the hospital, to find him and say thank you.

Mom never let him though; she barely let Lucas out of her sight for the next few weeks.

It wasn’t until a while later when two Superheroes and a scandal hit the papers that his Mom broke down into tears. She cupped his cheeks and softly kissed his forehead. Finally, they both knew who Batman was.

His Mom had driven them down to Cake-a Erotica, a big building with a hard name for him to pronounce. There was a charity auction of the belongings of the two men going on. Their car had pulled up and they had pushed through a crowd of many others. Two men stood at the front, one very tall and the other comparatively tiny. Even from where Lucas was standing, he could see how tired and sad the men looked. His mother let go of his hand, telling him to go look around, while she thanked the person as close as she could get to the man who saved his life.

Lucas wondered through the aisles of stuff, a lot of the objects looking mismatched. He guessed they must have been from both men, not just Batman.

That’s when he saw it.

Lain across the top of a worn chest of drawers was the familiar black suit and mask. It had a layer of dust and dirt on it, likely from its last use; he reached out to touch it. He was startled by a voice from behind him.

“I never did understand why he had that.”

Lucas turned, swallowing nervously. The much shorter man from the front of the auction was glancing over him, staring mournfully at the black fabric. He dropped into a crouch, looking right into Lucas’ eyes.

“You know what’s special about Batman, kid?”

He shook his head.

“He proved that you don’t have to be super to be a hero.”

Blinking owlishly, Lucas had not at the time understood what he meant.

 

Almost 20 years later, Lucas slipped on the black costume and pulled the mask over his head. So maybe he wasn’t a Super, and maybe he was new to the whole ‘save the world’ thing. But as the headphone in his ear crackled and the grouchy voice of his handler filtered into his ear, Lucas smiled. Doctor by day, Batman by night. He could make a difference.

“Alright Gabe, what have we got?”


End file.
